


Dark Was the Night

by woodie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adult Content, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Not Epilogue Compliant, Physical Abuse, Post-Deathly Hallows, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2019-04-21 01:38:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 46,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14274144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodie/pseuds/woodie
Summary: They never tell you about the aftermath.They never tell you how the war does not end with the last battle, how the last cry of victory is a silent, empty one. Because after you’ve given everything you have, you’re left with a million shards of life you’re supposed to piece back together.They never tell you how some people don’t manage to do that, and keep fighting an endless battle against themselves for years to come.The euphoria of victory is quickly sobered up by reality, the void left by those who died aches more, and not less, as time goes on. Every second that passes takes you further away, and you have to learn to live without them.War is plagued by dark, uncertain days, and the conception of future extends only to the next sunrise. The aftermath is a shadow. And the days seem to have no end.They never tell you about the aftermath - and just how much of the war never really ends.





	1. Rain

Her eyes sprung open, as if tightly wound springs were let lose. Her heart was beating erratically and she heard her own breath, short and desperate, in the dark. Her face felt hot and clammy, clashing against the cold air. Her right hand was gripping her wand like it was the only thing holding her to this world; reflex and instinct ingrained in learnt behaviour.

“ _Lumos,”_ she breathed, and light flooded her vision.

It was just her office. There was no one else here. She took a deep breath and pulled herself up, immediately wincing from the sharp pain in her ribs. She threw the covers aside and stiffly made her way to her desk. She drank from the glass of water, draining it as if she had actually just run for her life.

It had felt real.

She took another deep breath, placing a comforting hand on her bruised rib, as if its mere presence would assuage the pain. She stared at the cupboard underneath her desk. After a second’s hesitation, she flung the door open and pulled out the bottle of whisky. She poured herself a healthy measure and went to sit by the charmed-window sill.

She relished the burn of the first sip, feeling it make his way down her throat, warm, numbing. The beating in her chest began to slow its pace. It was dark out, the kind of still darkness that only exists in that halfway time between too late and too early. Rain fell from the skies like a heavy curtain.

She took another sip of whisky and looked around her small office, the conjured bed and its crumpled sheets standing out like a ridiculous joke in the middle of the old mahogany furniture. She tried to imagine what her passionate and ruthless seventeen-year old self would think if she knew this was her life. A small, humorous-less laugh left her lips, envisaging the naivety in the shocked reaction, the adamant refusal to accept it. She smiled condescendingly at herself through time, as if her past was a different person altogether. She, twenty-three years old, felt nothing.

The only time she felt anything was in her nightmares.

Yet, a prickling feeling in her stomach contradicted her thoughts. Today, she had felt something. Curiosity. Still holding her bruised rib with a comforting hand, she stood and walked back to her desk. She picked up the envelope, turning it once more to see the letters C.O.E.C. emblazoned on the back, shining brightly from the tip of her lit wand. The prickling feeling intensified, and she wondered again at the reason for the summons.

Maybe Hermione Granger could still feel, after all.

 

  


“Last orders, gentlemen,” the barman said, a tone of finality and relief exhaled through the words.

Draco looked over his shoulder, surprised to see the pub had emptied without his notice.

“Two more,” said the dark-haired man sat a couple of seats away from him at the bar.

Draco pulled from his wallet a ten pound note and handed it over along the bar. He shook his head, dismissing it. Draco scowled. Fucking Potter, magnanimous even in inebriation. He handed the money to the waiter, who mistook or ignored his intent to pay for his own drink and pocketed the hefty tip with no reluctance.

It didn’t bother him. Draco had been to this seedy muggle pub too many times, drunk too much too many times, and probably caused enough trouble too many times. The barman was probably due some appeasing.

He turned to look at his drinking companion, glasses propped on the top of his head, roughly rubbing his eyes with his palms. They had barely exchanged two words the entire evening, which for them wasn’t uncommon. It was worse when they did talk; rare as those evening were, they always left Draco with a sense of unease and irritation. This evening however, even through the silence, Draco was feeling particularly irritable.

Maybe it was the exhaustion. He was always irritated at Potter for some reason or other, but he felt particularly irksome today. This was also not uncommon, irritation at Potter was the norm and exhaustion was part of their job description. For the last three years, he could not remember a day where he did not feel the strain on his body and mind. Collateral damage of being an Auror.

Three years, yet it could have been yesterday. He was here, at the very same dirty, inconspicuous muggle pub. He could still taste it, the reckless feeling of freedom. The pride of achieving something that, for the first time, wasn't handed down to him by birth right or threat. Passing his Auror training had meant his right to chose. It had been his emancipation.

It was that very night, after his fourth or fifth whisky, that Potter had walked in and sat a couple of seats down from him. He congratulated him, welcomed him to the team and bought him a drink. Draco remembered him asking why he wasn’t out celebrating. Draco replied that he was.

They drank in silence for the rest of the evening. And over the years, for many evenings after that. It was a silence of mutual understanding. Potter didn’t ask Draco about the War, about the his regrets or the choices he made in the past. Draco didn’t ask about his life, about the hardships of raising a son on his own, of the inexplicable pain of losing the person you love the most. 

Words were convoluted and overrated. Yet sometimes, they did talk. It was inevitable, what with working together, and the uncanny consequence of too much alcohol in ones veins, that conversation would eventually take place. Thankfully, they were few and far between.

He finished his beer and stood to put his coat on. 

“Fancy one more?” Potter asked, turning to look at him.

“Can’t. Got an early meeting,” he replied. 

He fastened his coat, nodded at the bartender and he made his way out into the pouring rain.

 

The receptionist stared at her without caring to disguise her annoyance. She had grey, curly hair and an expression of mild vexation that reminded Hermione of Ron’s great auntie Muriel. She stopped bouncing her leg and took a deep breath. 

Maybe she shouldn’t have come. She couldn’t fathom what the Committee on Experimental Charms could want with her - Law Enforcement and Charms rarely overlapped. In fact, she had never actually met anyone that worked in the department. Was this a simple summons for counsel on a minor case? If so, why a direct request for her? 

A pang of realisation suddenly hit her - this was about the War.

She gathered her things, stood and made to leave. How stupid of her not to have realised before. At that very moment, the large wooden door at the end of the room opened and a small old wizard with long grey hair that waved around a pair of horns, walked out. 

Unable to make her escape, Hermione smoothed her shirt, draped her coat over her left arm and waited. She would deal with this quickly and get back to her work. The ancient wizard dragged his feet through the door, followed closely by another, dressed in immaculate black work robes. Hermione frowned slightly as Draco Malfoy came into view, some corner of her brain wondering what he could be doing here. He wore the same mask of indifference Hermione had been so used to seeing since the War, except that for a second, a mere glimpse of a frown appeared between his brow, betraying his attempt to hide it.

“Mr. Malfoy, it is always a pleasure. I will be waiting to hear from you,” the wizard said extending a hand. Hermione had almost expected a shrill, little voice, but was surprised at it's deep, confident quality.

“Pleasure is mine, Mr. Wimple. I can assure you I will give this matter the utmost importance and you will have my reply as soon as possible,” he replied cordially.

“Ah, Ms. Granger!” The small wizard spun round when he noticed her presence, “So glad you could make it. I am Gilbert Wimple, Head of the Committee on Experimental Charms.”

The proud undertone was unmistakable. “And this is Mr. Draco Malfoy, although I do believe you are acquainted?”

Hermione and Draco nodded curtly at each other – their preferred manner of greeting for the past five years.

“Yes, Mr. Wimple, we attended Hogwarts together,” Hermione said with a polite, well-practiced smile.

“Splendid!” The little wizard rejoiced, “Now Ms. Granger, do come in, we have much to discuss.”

Malfoy left after a short bow, walking stoically down the stone corridor. Hermione followed Gilbert Wimple through the wooden door and down a stone passageway, lined with several doors. She felt more and more as if she was in a castle dungeon with every second that passed, and not in the Ministry of Magic. Mr. Wimple stopped before the last door in the passageway, opening it with his wand. He motioned for her to enter before him.

She appraised the room from the entrance. She had expected an office with walls lined with charms books and a dark mahogany desk that seemed to be the preferred furnishing style at the Ministry. Instead, she walked into a circular chamber with a double-height ceiling. The walls were made of the same grey stone that composed the rest of the place until now and they held lit torches, and their flames gave the room a bluish hue. Set like an amphitheatre, one side of the room held a long, wooden table, elevated just like the ones used by the teachers in the Great Hall at Hogwarts. The rest of the room was bare.

Sat on the left of this table and facing the open space in the middle of the chamber was none other than Professor Flitwick. He held an old quill and looked as if he’d been making notes. As they came through the threshold, he turned and grinned at Hermione. Mr. Wimple scrambled up to his own seat to the right of Flitwick leaving Hermione stood by the door, unsure of what to do.

“Ms. Granger, I do apologise for the inconvenient setting of this meeting. You see, meetings are quite rare for us, and usually held the other party’s quarters.” He smiled apologetically, “Nevertheless, do feel free to conjure a chair for your comfort,” he motioned with his hand to the open space before their table.

Childishly, Hermione felt as if this was a test. She did as she was told, and sat. She couldn’t decide if she felt apprehensive or curious.

“Ms. Granger, let me introduce you to the remaining member of the Committee on Experimental Charms. Professor Filius Flitwick,” Wimple introduced, and Flitwick bowed his head to her, still smiling. Hermione returned the gesture, slightly amused at the extent of the well-regarded Committee.

“As you may have deduced, our department is responsible for the research and elaboration of new charms, before they can be safely authorised for general use. We have other wizards of course, working on Research and Implementation. However, the Committee must approve of every project that is to be initiated and every charm that results from that work,”  he narrated, the same undertone of pride present yet again. 

“We have summoned you here today for a proposition. The Auror Office and the Magical Law Enforcement departments have commissioned a project and we believe you are the right candidate for the job. The project is, of course, strictly confidential, which is why you would not have heard about it yet. But we do believe it will have profound effects on the Wizarding World.”

She nodded.

“Professor Flitwick here insists that you were his best Charms student and your, er, _experience_ , will certainly be extremely beneficial in the progress of the research,” he commented with the inflection that left little doubt in Hermione’s mind that this had something to do with the War.

At least on that account she was right.

“The proposal is as follows: we would like you to temporarily leave your current position in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and work on the project full-time. It will involve investigative research and engaging in the implementation of a new charm. Your pay would be double your current salary, effective immediately. You will be required to attend periodic meetings at this room where you will present your progress in the work to a selected committee. You are to work together with another wizard, whose the identity, I’m afraid, we still cannot confirm.”

Hermione’s brain was on overdrive. Certainly not what she expected. She hadn’t considered leaving Magical Law, yet the idea of something new had awakened something in her. Excitement, perhaps?

“I’m afraid there is a catch, Ms. Granger. There is a high chance that the project will be dangerous; it is part of an ongoing investigation by the Auror Office and involves fundamental elements of very dark magic and, should something go wrong, the consequences can be hazardous. Secondly, the project is of a very sensitive nature, so unfortunately we cannot divulge the specifics until you have agreed to work with us. I understand we are asking a lot of you to commit to something without much details, but I’m afraid this is how it has to be.”

They waited in silence for her to say something. She had been listening attentively to the two men, her mind running circles on itself, imagining the possibilities of the job in question. Suddenly, she realised the loudness of her own thoughts.

“Please give this some thought, Ms. Granger. We will be awaiting your response. If you decide to accept our proposal, the project can be initiated as early as next week.”

“Thank you for presenting me with this opportunity,” She spoke finally, “I am most certainly interested and will give this serious consideration over the weekend. I can officially give you an answer on Monday.”

“Excellent!” Exclaimed Flitwick. They both left their chairs and came to escort her out of the room. She took the lift back to her own office, suddenly deciding that, after two nights, she was going home tonight.


	2. Wind

She did up the buttons on her coat, tucking her scarf in her chest as the cold wind blew tendrils around her face. Hermione wondered what was it whispering when it ruffled the leaves of the trees, or what was it lamenting when it moaned melancholically against the thick branches. When she was young, her mother had told her that when the wind brushed against your skin it learnt all your secrets and thoughts, then it would continue its journey, carrying with it the weight of the world. 

She continued the walk towards the apartment her and Ron shared, It wasn’t exactly close to the Ministry, but she enjoyed the walk either way.

Or maybe she just dreaded getting home.

It had been two days seen she had seen him and some part of her mind still hoped that she would come to find Ron, _her_ Ron, wearing a smile and welcoming her home.

The sky was dark now and the streets were empty. The wind kept her company, blowing dry leaves in her way, reminding her that it was still there.

She went up the stairs of the old terraced house. Would he be in? She stopped in front of the door. She should be scared. She shouldn’t have come back. But her relentless Gryffindor courage had failed her yet again. She opened the door.

 

Draco _apparated_ to the gates of the Manor and quickly made his way up the garden. The sounds of his arrival echoed through the dark hall as he entered the main door. He took a detour through the drawing room and made his way towards the west wing of the mansion. He opened the door to his room and was relieved to find a fire burning warmly in the fireplace. He took off his robe and let himself fall backwards on his bed, thinking of the proposition that had been made for him.

This mission, if it could be called that, would take him from his day-to-day job. Was he ready for that? Even if temporarily? In his otherwise meaningless life, he felt his work was the only thing that held him to the ground and kept him sane. The money hadn't tempted him, it was the prospect of doing something new and the burning curiosity of why they had called him that weighed on his mind. It was true that he was quite accomplished at charms. It definitely had not been his favourite subject at Hogwarts, but he couldn’t deny it came easily to him. Surely, they could find others who possessed better skills? Know-it-all Granger or some Ravenclaw were probably more apt than he was. Granger… what was she doing there? Was she the so-called partner whose identity they couldn’t divulge? If she was made the same offer he was, and they both chose to accept, he would have to be working with her? Preposterous, he thought, scowling in the silence.

He knew whom he wanted to talk to. He knew she would help him see things clear. His chest weighed heavily as he thought about his mother. He sat on the bed and rubbed his temple.

 

  


The lights were on, but he was nowhere to be seen. Two empty bottles of firewhiskey lay by the armchair, alongside an ashtray that collected a pile of ashes. The stench of stale smoke reached her as soon as she came through the door. She walked through the living room, past the open kitchen, and through the door of their little room.

He was laying on his back across the bed. A still burning, half-smoked cigarette adorned his fingers and yet another bottle lay tilted on his chest, his hands loosely clasping its neck.

Hermione walked gingerly to his side and retrieved the cigarette, stubbing it on an ashtray that lay on the bedside table. She moved to remove the bottle, but his hand suddenly wrapped tightly around her wrist.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing,” he grumbled, pulling himself up, using his grip on her wrist as leverage.

Hermione whimpered in pain, the sound stuck somewhere in the back of her throat as she attempted to silence it. He stood unsteadily, inches from her. He smelled putrid, of smoke and sweat, and when he exhaled, his breath was pure alcohol.

“So my dear wife has decided to turn up at last,” he rasped, looking down on her. He took a swig from the bottle and let go of her wrist, walking away towards the living room.

Hermione let herself lean against the wall. Most times she returned home after staying over at the office he didn’t notice. He would treat her, when he acknowledged her at all, as if she had just left the house a few minutes earlier. With one deep breath she turned to find him.

He had sat down on his armchair, facing away from her. She went over, standing next to him, and placed her hand on his shoulder, delicately but firmly enough for him to know she was there, she would always be there.

He brushed it away.

She swallowed hard and returned to the bedroom. Methodically, she cleared the ashtray and opened the windows that overlooked the empty street, welcoming the cold wind that forced its way in, clearing the stench in the air and caressing her face. She changed into an old, worn t-shirt and climbed into the soft bed. She lay on her side looking into the dark sky outside.

An image, brought up unannounced by her treacherous mind, clouded her vision. It was of Ron, standing in an altar, beaming at her. Behind him stood Harry, with a smile that seemed to not fit in his face, and to his side stood Ginny, barely pregnant, one hand clasped around the tiny bulge in her belly. 

It was a still picture of a memory, a fraction in time of a life long lost.

She swallowed hard again, attempting to dispel the tightness in her chest.

Like so many times before, she wondered if there was a turning point for him. She wondered if there was something she could’ve done. Hermione gave one more look at her wrist and saw the shadow of a bruise beginning to form.

 

  


He made his way to her quarters silently. He did not know where Lucius was and the last thing he wanted was to attract his attention. He got to her bedroom door and knocked, almost imperceptibly.

“Mother, it’s me,” he said as low as he could without whispering.

“Come in, darling.” Her reply was weak, frail.

He pushed the door quietly. Her room was dark, illuminated only by the dancing flame of a single candle on her bedside table. He walked over to her and sat beside her. Even though he came in here every day to see her, her pale, sallow, thin face never ceased to bring a fresh wave of angst that lodged itself tightly in a knot in his throat.

She smiled and brought a weak hand to meet his cheek.

“How are you feeling, mum?”

“Good, I think the new potion is starting to have a good effect. I feel much better,” she said through her smile.

Narcissa Malfoy was a great liar, he knew that. She had hidden her unbreakable vow with Snape from the Dark Lord and proclaimed Potter’s death to all the Death Eaters when the boy-who-lived had lived yet again. But Draco had been raised by her, and even as every part of him wished to believer her words, he knew they were untrue. Like all those times before, she was lying to protect him.

He swallowed hard and held her hand. She squeezed it weakly, closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. They sat in silence for a while. Draco’s mind was wondering, like he did everyday, how many moments of these would he have left.

“What’s on your mind, my darling?”

“I’ve been called to participate in a mission, so to speak. Outside the Auror Office,” he began. She waited in silence for him to continue. “It’s an experimental charms project. I won’t know much about it until I give them a reply. But I’d have to leave my Auror tasks for the time being.”

“Seems like you’ve been given a promotion, Draco. This should be good news, yet it sounds like you’re telling me my cat died,” she said sweetly, smiling up at him.

“You don’t think I would be giving up my career?” he asked.

“Seems to me like you’re adding to it.”

Draco had been brought up not to be indecisive. He had been taught to suppress emotion and doubt, power only came to those who were resolute. Feeling indecisive made him feel vulnerable.

“Change is not always a bad thing, Draco."

He took in her sad smile, listening to the weight of those words. Maybe now, at the end, Narcissa was thinking of all the things she would’ve changed if she had the chance. And that did it, as quickly as popping a baloon, the indecision left him. He didn’t know if this would be good for him or not. He just knew he never wanted to feel like he thought Narcissa felt now.

 

  


“Hermione! You there?”

Stuck somewhere between sleeping and waking, Hermione could hear Harry calling her. She wondered why he was shouting if he was just sitting right next to her in the Griffyndor common room.

“Hermione! Are you home?”

She opened heavy eye lids and felt her mind being pulled back to reality with that overwhelming weight that comes from being dragged awake from a dream. She was in her London flat, miles and miles away from her cosy common room chair at Hogwarts. And Harry was calling out for her.

She jumped from bed, casting a quick sideways glance to an unconscious Ron, who slept fully clothed over the sheets on the other side of their bed, and made her way quickly to her living room.

Harry’s head was in the fire, looking anxious.

“Ah, I was just about to give up.”

“Is everything all right Harry?” she asked, frantically, kneeling down in front of her small fireplace.

“Yes. I just spoke to Kinglsey. There’s been another attack,” he said gravely.

Hermione felt like a heavy stone dropped in her stomach.

“Where?”

“A village near Inverness. Six muggles died,” Harry exhaled, rushing through the words.

Hermione clasped a hand to her mouth. Her heart proclaimed heavily against her chest. A vision of bodies lined up on the floor of the Great Hall hit her involuntarily.

“But that’s not all - they messed up, there are witnesses,” he continued urgently, “Hermione, it was Dolohov.”

A surge of anger and pain shot through her like an ice blade.

"I have to go back in.” He was trying to keep his calm, Hermione could tell. “I need you to watch James, could you come over? Mrs. Weasley is going to Diagon Alley to help George.”

“Of course, I’ll come over right away,” she said.

“Thanks Hermione. Oh, and don’t tell Ron- “

“Don’t tell me what?” Ron’s hoarse, harsh voice came from behind her.

Hermione spun round and saw Ron just coming round the door into the living room. He looked dreadful.

He stared at them in silence.

“It’s James, I was just telling Hermione he’s been calling you Uncle Won-Won, I wasn’t sure you were going to like that,” Harry lied, breaking the tense silence.

Hermione half smiled, corroborating the lie. Ron glanced at her for a couple of seconds, showing no reaction to Harry and his lie and then walked away, lighting a cigarette as he went past her.

“Okay Harry, will see you in a bit, just need to change and I’ll head over.”

“Thanks. Erm, see you Ron.”

Ron ignored him. He rounded on her.

“You’re leaving again,” he said, phrasing his question as an accusation.

“Yes, Harry needs to go back to work, he asked me to watch James.” She was already getting to her feet.

He didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. She stared back, searching deep into his eyes, trying to look past the accusatory glare and understand something, anything.

“Would…. would you like to come with me? James would love to see his godfather,” she said tentatively.

“No. You know I can’t stand looking him,” he rebuffed angrily and turned away from her.

With a deep sigh, she went in to her room to change. Within fifteen minutes she had apparatted to Harry’s front door.

She knocked and Harry opened the door before she had fully retreated her knuckles.

He had a sweater in one hand and a toy in the other, his hair messier than usual.

“Hi Hermione,” he said, giving her a half-hug and rushing back inside.

She walked into the house. The mess was all over: the floor was strewn with children toys, there were odd bits of clothes thrown haphazardly over his living room furniture and the kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes. The house had a general appearance of someone who was barely keeping it together.

From the other room a black-haired, freckled little boy came zooming in on a toy broomstick, flying barely fifty centimetres from the ground.

“Auntie Mione!” He raced towards her, dropping from the broom and rushing to her with his arms open. She bent down and received his embrace, closing her arms tightly around her godson.

“Hi James! Oooh I’ve missed you, little one!”

“Auntie Mione, come see the castwe I’m bewding! it's huuuge! ”

“Really!? Let’s see it then!” She said putting him back on the ground.

He took her hand and lead her back to the conservatory facing their little garden. Harry followed them, picking things up on the way.

“Hermione, thank you so much for helping out. I should be back by nightfall. We’re just planning today, we should leave tomorrow morning, then I’ll drop him off at the Weasleys.”

She nodded.

“Don’t worry, me and James will look after each other, right James?” she said, tickling the toddler.

He started laughing, that sweet bell-like laugh that filled any room with joy. “Stop, Auntie Mione, stop!” he managed between laughs.

Hermione loved that laugh. He escaped her grasp and ran away from her. She stood up.

“Harry, are you sure- “

“Hermione, I’m ready for this. I’ve been waiting for this for two years,” he said, resolutely.

“Ok. Be careful.”

He smiled and walked over to James, kneeling beside him and his castle.

“James, daddy is going to have to work today ok?”

The three year old sulked angrily, looking so much like Ginny it sent chills down Hermione’s back.

“Are you catchwing a bad wizard?” He asked, testily.

“Yes, one of the baddest of them all. But I’ll be back for dinner! We’ll have something nice, treacle tart!” Harry promised joyfully.

“YAY!” James said, throwing his little arms in the air and hugging his dad.

Harry hugged and kissed him in the forehead. Hermione watched this, feeling nothing but love for this little family. She saw Harry stand, give her an appreciative smile, pick up his coat and walk away to plan the capture of the man that had murdered his wife.

He returned around eight in the evening, looking drained. Hermione was sitting on the sofa by the lit fireplace, reading Harry's heavily annotated copy of "Hexes, Jinxes and Curses: an Encyclopaedia of Dark Charms". James was asleep with his head on her lap.

"Hey, you cleaned up! Hermione, you really didn't have to," he said, sheepishly appraising the clean and tidy house.

"Nonsense, I don't mind helping out," she replied with a smile, closing the book on her lap.

Harry smiled back and stared at his sleeping child.

"He tried desperately to stay awake, but he was exhausted. I kept your promise though, there's some lasagna in the kitchen and we saved you slice of treacle tart."

"Thanks, I'm starving," he said, turning back to the kitchen. He returned a minute later with a plate of food and a bottle of wine, and two wine glasses hovering before him. He sat down on the other end of the sofa and poured them both a drink.

“I hate not being here on the weekends. But this couldn't wait,” he said, siting down heavily.

"How did it go?"

"Well. We've had the plan ready for ages, we just needed to update logistics and pick the team," he managed through mouthfuls.

"Good to hear. Anything I can do from my end?"

"Yep, you can get the paperwork for his arrest, trials and sentencing ready. We don’t know how well he’s protected his hiding place, and whether he’s alone, so it might take a couple of days."

Hermione nodded. Realising she might no longer be at her job for long, Hermione replied.

"I'll make sure it's done by Monday," she paused, "I got a job offer on Friday."

Harry looked up from his plate.

"A job offer? Where to? I didn't even know you were looking!"

"I wasn't. It's an offer to work on a experimental charms project. Top secret, they barely gave me any details apart from the fact that it might involve dangerous magic and a lot research with important consequences. I'm supposed to accept without even knowing what it's about,” she said, frowning slightly.

Harry had a small crease between his brow, “actually, I heard Robards talking about something like this to Kinglsey the other day. A charms research based on some information that the Auror Office collected after the War."

Hermione's curiosity spiked again.

"Malfoy was there,” she added.

"Malfoy?” he frowned. "Is he in the project as well?"

"Not sure, they said it's a two person job and he was leaving just as I arrived."

"Weird. It would make sense, though, if it's a joint-department project. He's on the Dolohov mission though,” he mused.

Wondering how the prospect of working with Malfoy could affect her decision, Harry voiced her thoughts.

"Are you going to say yes?” he asked.

Hermione took a deep breath. "I don't know, Harry. I want to... I think. I just don't know if I should."

"Have you talked to him about it yet?” he asked, tentatively.

She looked up at him and hoped her face didn't betray her emotions.

"Not yet."

"When was the last time you and Ron had a proper conversation, a real talk?" he asked pointedly.

"It's been a long time Harry. A really long time,” she said with a sigh, and took a long sip of her wine.

"I bumped into Susan, she told me you've been sleeping in your office again."

Hermione scowled, already rethinking her idea of promoting Susan Bones when she took the offer at C.O.E.C. _If_ she took the offer, she corrected herself.

"Don't look at me like that, she was just worried about you,” he said defensively, spearing another piece of lasagna.

Hermione kept silent. Harry just stared at her. She knew he was worried but she also knew he would never say "leave him". He knew, just as well as she did, that she couldn't leave him. No matter how unhappy she was, no matter how many times he pushed her or hurt her, she wouldn't leave him. They both knew she was all he had left. And the uncertainty of what he would do or what he would become if she did, kept her bound where she was and kept Harry's mouth tight shut. Even if it was at her expense.

Of course Harry didn't know just how bad things were.  He didn't know how aggressive he got when he drank, what he did to her when he lost control. Hermione had never told him any of that, she had never told anyone. Talking about it made it real.

Without dignifying him with a response, Hermione wildly changed the subject.

"Can I borrow this book? I feel it might come in handy if I decide to accept the offer."

"Seems like you already have," he smiled, his tone light once more.

"Daddy?" James stirred between them.

With a yawn, Harry stood to put the groggy James to bed, and Hermione, even though she was dreading getting back, bid the two of them goodnight. When she got home, Ron was nowhere to be seen.


	3. Beyond the Mist

The thick branches started to thin, and in a small clearing ahead, he could finally see the dim outline of an ancient stone building in the purple pre-dawn light. Six of them had been walking through dense woods for the last twenty minutes, moving without a sound due to the silencing charms cast all around. Ghosts gliding through a carpet of red, brown and golden leaves. The air was heavy with the night's mildew. As they reached the centre of the clearing, Robards raised his hand and brought them to a halt. Draco glanced sideways and saw Potter, who was staring ahead with an ironclad determination, wand gripped tightly within his right hand. That look scared him.

Fucking Potter, he was going to lose it and do something rash. He wanted to find a way of reminding him this was just another day on the job. He tried to catch his eye, but his gaze was fixed straight ahead.

Draco followed his stare. The old stone building was in ruins, part of its walls broken and taken down in the distant past. It’s remaining standing walls were completely covered in thick ivy. In the eerie silence of the morning mist, the beauty of the ancient building seemed to emanate, transfixing him. It was a still frame of a moment, stolen from time.

But in a split second, everything changed. Draco saw a flash of green light in his peripheral vision and heard a dull thud as something heavy hit the dry leaves. Without hesitating, he threw himself behind the nearest tree, spinning round and shooting a stunning spell towards the source of the curse.

They knew.

Flashes of red and green illuminated the clearing and shouts of spells and curses exploded into the air. Filled with rage at being ambushed and scared to see who had been hit, he tried to see how many they were, but they were hidden in the dark beyond the clearing. He turned to see Potter behind a nearby tree, sending consecutive stunning spells into the shadows.

"Plan B, Potter! Get on with it!" Draco yelled harshly. Out of the corner of his eye he saw him disappear under his invisibility cloak with one swift move. They needed to retake control of the situation and that could only start if they knew what they were facing. He had to move in closer. Suddenly, a panting Anthony Goldstein had thrown himself behind the tree to his right.

"Cover me!" Draco yelled. Goldstein nodded and turned to cast a wide _protego_ quickly followed by a range of offensive curses in what seemed the same breath. Silently glad at Goldstein's quick wand work, he did a half bent sprint to a large oak tree closer to the hedges where the Death Eater's hid. The curse only brushed past his face, but he felt the slash it open across his cheek. He could feel the warm blood dripping down to his chin as he threw himself down feet first and reached the safety of the tree. He turned and saw Finnigan with a bloody gash across his forehead and Demelza, both still fighting at the other end of the clearing. He then saw Gawain Robards body strewn across the leaf-carpeted floor. He swallowed hard, doing his best to keep fear at bay.

At this point, three shadows moved backwards from the dark into the clearing, fighting recklessly, sending wild curses in an attempt to hit an invisible target attacking them from behind. Draco drew a sharp, relieved breath - their plan was working, they were back in control. Potter was shepherding them into their clearing and they had them surrounded. They were no longer fighting blind. Branches were now exploding into millions of wooden splinters as spells and curses flew closer to their targets. Draco identified Yaxley just as a stunning spell from Goldstein hit him square in the chest. He collapsed not a foot away from where he stood. Beside him was Rowle, duelling Finnigan and Demelza at the same time. In their midst was Dolohov, turning and firing killing curses with no restraint, his face contorted with madness. Draco saw Potter appear from thin air and face him, jaw locked, his eyes glued to his wife’s murderer. He dodged Dolohov's spells with quick, controlled reflexes, never ceasing to move toward him. Draco was about to lift his wand to enter the fight but he saw Finningan be incarcerated by tight ropes. He ran to assist Demelza, avoiding flying curses to the best of his ability.

Rowle's eyes widened in surprise when he saw him, and Draco couldn't help but smirk as he joined the duel.

"You!" Yelled Rowle, who's anger seem to increase with the realisation that Draco had become an Auror. "Fucking blood traitor! You deserve to die!" He yelled amidst the ruckus. He shot a killing curse, but Draco dived, and he heard the tree behind him take the hit. He stood up and heard the loud crack before he glanced round and confirmed his suspicion. Acting on pure instinct, he ran straight at Demelza, who was still duelling Rowle, throwing his entire weight into the tackle that would hopefully take them out of the way of the crashing tree. They hit the ground hard, seconds before the tree crashed down with a thunderous noise. He turned and saw Rowle's arm bent at an awkward angle from beneath the thick trunk.

He and Demelza shot up, she ran to Finnigan and started releasing him from the tight ropes. Draco moved towards the centre of the clearing, jumping over the fallen tree and its victim. Dolohov was kneeling on the ground, bound by invisible shackles, blood dripping from his gaunt face as he stared at the scene ahead of him with a small smile on his lips. In front of him, Goldstein seemed to be using all his strength to hold back Potter, who was struggling against his restraints with a desperate urgency.

“Let me go, Goldstein!" He yelled trying to break.

"Potter, no-" Goldstein was using his feet to keep him back, as if he was pushing against a moving wall.

“Oi Potter!" Draco yelled as he ran over. "What the fuck do you think-"

“He killed her, Malfoy! He took everything away from me, I’m going to kill him-"

Draco made use of his momentum and pushed Potter to the ground as his arrived on the scene. As Potter scrambled to get up, Draco pointed his wand and cried "*Expelliarmus*!”

He held the flying wand in his hand. Potter looked livid, his eyes filled with murderous anger.

"Potter, move one more inch and I swear I will petrify you!" He yelled, pointing both wands straight to his chest.

“Give me my wand back, Malfoy,” he growled through gritted teeth and short breaths, “ _now_."

He looked up panting with rage. Draco ignored him and kept both wands steady. Goldstein was standing next to him, looking from one to the other, doubt and fear spread across his face.

Draco shot him a look of pure loathing. Even now, people still doubted him. He turned back to Potter.

"You kill him now and he gets away easy," Draco said calmly, trying to steer reason into a logic he could comprehend. He shot a disgusted look at Dolohov, who remained silent, smiling.

Goldstein extended a hand and pulled Potter back up. They stared at each other, Draco could feel the anger pulsating from him and kept his grip tight on the wands, just in case. Then, he saw the fight leave him in one heavy, defeated breath. He knew Potter had heard him. He handed back his wand.

They both moved to Dolohov, Potter staring down at him with disgust, his hands trembling slightly. Draco crouched next to him, and whispered. "You're going to get a fair trial, which is more than you deserve, but you will rot in hell everyday for the rest of your life. And I give you my word I will make sure you live a long and healthy life."

And then he spat on the ground next to his knees. He wasn't sure why he did it, Malfoys were more dignified than that. But Antonin Dolohov revolted him. It wasn't even because of Potter - Draco didn't understand the kind of grief that he was plagued with. It wasn't even because of Robards, though that certainly added to it. The Auror had never treated Draco like a Death Eater, like most still did to this day. And if Dolohov had fought Robards face to face, it would have been a different story.

His revulsion started years before, in those plagued days of the War when the Dark Lord took over Malfoy Manor. He remembered the overheard conversation so clearly the words were loud in his head. Dolohov’s drunk drawl, boasting to his father how he had raped a sixteen year old muggle girl before killing her and her family. His father's response had been merely a contemptuous comment about never soiling himself with such filth. It had shaken him to his very core.

Demelza and Finnigan appeared, hovering Rowle's body behind them. He looked completely disfigured, his purple face completely smashed and his chest sunken, as if all the air had left him. An empty, broken, carcass. Goldstein moved the unconscious Yaxley next to Dolohov and bound him with the same invisible shackles. Malfoy, Potter and Finnigan lifted Gawain Robard’s limp body onto a stretcher Demelza had conjured.

It was all over as quickly as it had started. They stood in a circle around their prisoners and their dead, and looked up to find the same tired and angry expressions in each others faces. Goldstein had a black eye, potentially Potter’s handiwork, but apart from that was looking unhurt; Finnegan had burns across his arms and rips on his robes where the ropes bound him, and dried blood on the cut on his forehead. Demelza was holding her left arm gingerly, leading Draco to realise he might have hurt her when he tackled them out of the way of the falling tree; Potter seemed to bear no scars, yet his grief was visible on every inch of his body.

Draco looked back to see the eerie stone ruin illuminated by rays of sunshine coming from the East. It stood there, witness to their struggle, and he realised something about this place made him uncomfortable. He pushed it from his mind.

 

  


Hermione had arrived at the Ministry one hour early on Monday morning. She wanted to personally hand in her acceptance to the C.O.E.C. and get on with the paperwork for Dolohov's trial and arrest. Also, Ron hadn't returned home since Saturday and lingering there only reminded her of that.

She had just walked into her office when an interdepartmental memo flew in and landed on her desk. As she was about to open it, a blinding white light shone and Harry's stag Patronus appeared in front of her.

"We've got them. Coming in straight to Auror Headquarter’s. Robards is dead,” the stag spoke in Harry's strained voice, and then shimmered into nothing.

Hermione's pulse quickened as the dread turned her stomach. She had nothing but gratitude, respect and admiration for the Auror who had trained her, who had supported and understood her when she made her decision not to take up her position after her training. Then she thought,  _them_? Dolohov was not working alone. Panic ran through her and, with no regard to the half opened memo, she ran out of her office.

When she walked into the Auror Office, chaos met her eyes. People were running in all directions with desperate urgency, shuffling papers, calling Healers, shouting instructions. Hermione ignored them and went straight to the training room, where she knew the apparition wards would have been lifted to bring them in.

She immediately saw two bodies on the floor, one so disfigured she could not recognise who it was. Swallowing her dread she turned to look around. Lying on a stretcher next to the stranger was her former trainer, looking peacefully asleep. Harry was sitting on the floor beside him with his head in his hands. Malfoy was standing next to a stunned Dolohov, his face bloody, yet his eyes did not leave his prisoner. Behind them Goldstein was standing guard over Yaxley, who also seemed stunned, while Seamus and Demelza were being treated by Healers. She sighed in relief and ran to Harry, who looked up and stood to embrace her.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," she said hugging him tightly. He seemed to be clutching her for support more than anything else.

"We were ambushed. They were waiting for us," he told her, his voice raw. "Dolohov didn't even give him a chance to fight," he spat.

Hermione's heart was racing. "Harry, who's the oth-other?" She glanced at the purple figure still lying on the floor. It was Seamus who answered from behind Harry.

"Rowle," he replied angrily.

"But how?" She asked quietly. It wasn't Harry who answered her.

"He shot a killing curse at Malfoy, but he dodged and it hit a tree behind us. Malfoy got me out of the way when the tree came down, but Rowle didn't see it coming," Demelza told them, and it seemed that Harry and Anthony were just learning of this now too. Then she turned and spoke directly at Malfoy, “thanks, Malfoy. If it weren't for you I'd be lying on a stretcher right next to Robards," she finished in a small voice.

Hermione flinched at Demelza’s harsh candour. She turned to look at Malfoy, who was watching the exchange as if not really part of it. He stared at Demelza with a pained expression on his face, looking as if he was about to speak. He realised Hermione was looking at him apprehensively and their eyes met. He stared back, defiant, challenging her to say something. But then, a commotion by the door broke their eye contact. Kingsley Shacklebolt walked in, followed by a team of Magical Law Enforcement officers and none other than Gilbert Wimple.

"Take Dolohov to holding cell 5 and Yaxley to 3," his deep voice commanded orders to the officers. He then turned to the two Healers who had finished treating Malfoy's cut. "Please take Robard's body to St. Mungo's while I inform his family and arrangements can be made."

They all stood quietly as his orders were followed without question. Hermione returned to look at Malfoy, who followed with his eyes as they took Dolohov from the room, a look of slight disgust on his face, as if something right underneath his nose smelled bad.

"Now," continued Kinglsey "I want a full de-brief from the team in 15 minutes, my office. Hermione, Malfoy, a word please," he said, taking no time in moving out of the room, Gilbert Wimple waddling in his wake.

With a quick glance at Harry, she followed them out of the room. She could sense Malfoy striding silently behind her. They entered a room where planning and strategy meetings were held. A large table stood in the centre and the walls were lined with writing boards. Kingsley sat himself in one of the chairs and Wimple stood next to him, barely reaching his Minister's seating height. Hermione took a seat across from them, but she saw from the corner of her eye Malfoy refused to sit, standing somewhere behind her with his arms crossed in front of him.

"I'm afraid time is up. Dolohov's arrest has pushed up the deadline on your recent job offers and we need your answers. I do not need to remind you that you both were selected for this, and we have our reasons for that, but if you two aren't up for it, we will find someone who is," Kingsley finished bluntly.

Hermione was not sure if Kingsley's lack of ceremony affronted or scared her. She saw Wimple shuffling his feet and realised he might be feeling the same way. She took a deep breath and replied, “you know you can count on me, Kinglsey. I'm in."

"Good," he replied, though she knew it was his way of thanking her. "Malfoy?" They all turned to look at him.

He stared at Kingsley, a frown creasing his brows, his internal struggle almost visible. After what seemed to be the end of a long minute, he nodded slowly.

Gilbert Wimple piped up for the first time. "Good! Shall we get started?"


	4. Haze

"When the War ended, all the houses, offices and buildings connected to the Dark Order were raided. As you know, a large range of dark objects were apprehended,” Gimple began.

Draco felt his jaw clench, yes, he remembered the raids very well.

“But one particular raid to a former Ministry of Magic employee’s home, turned out quite unexpected results.”

“Wimple, get on with it, I need to debrief the team and Malfoy needs to come with me,” Kingsley said, impatiently.

“Yes, sorry Minister,” the small wizard whimpered in his deep voice. “Augustus Rookwood was an employee of the Ministry and a well-regarded member of the-"

“Department of Mysteries,” finished Granger.

Draco scowled, not even in a moment like this she could resist being an attention-seeking know-it-all.

“Precisely!” exclaimed a delighted Wimple. “Rookwood spent years researching some of the most mysterious subjects of our time, including the power of love, thought and death. Being an unspeakable meant we didn’t know the exact nature of his line of research,” he paused. "We found out when we searched his home, and we also found that he had continued his work under He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Nameds’ instructions,”

The silence was heavy now, tense with what Draco knew was the revelation to come. His limbs ached with exhaustion, but he felt the tension tingling on his skin. He could see Granger practically gripping the sides of her chair. "From the material we encountered, we deduced he was in the process of developing a new charm. Something deadly. Something worse than Avada Kedavra,” he finished, his gaze lowered.

Draco shifted his weight. “What can be worse than death?”

Granger stared back at him, ready for a retort, but Shacklebolt beat her to it.

“Death is easy, Malfoy, it’s what comes before it that’s hard.”

Malfoy felt his stomach clench, and bit down the inside of his cheek to keep his face from betraying any reaction.

“We cannot know for sure, Mr. Malfoy,” Wimple continued "but we work under the assumption that Avada Kedavra simply extinguishes life. It leaves no traces, marks or scars, not on the body or the soul. Which means that it is so efficient that its victim does not have time to feel pain. However, we know of spells that can cause excruciating, unbearable pain, such as the Cruciatus curse,”

At the mention of the curse he saw Granger give a tiny flinch, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to trigger a memory of her, writhing in pain on the floor in his own house.

“And charms with such a profound effect that they affect the soul, such as the protection that Lily Potter gave her son."

Potter, the unbeatable twat, he thought maliciously.

“We think Rookwood was working on something that affected body and soul before delivering death as a gift, rather than punishment,” said Kingsley.

“That’s sadistic,” interjected Hermione.

“You haven’t even heard it all. Ms. Granger,” continued Wimple. “We have reason to believe Augustus was trying to create a charm that diffuses… or expands, so to speak.”

“Expands?” She questioned, arching her eyebrows. Malfoy felt as lost as her, how could a curse expand?

“More like a cloud than a beam, to put it figuratively, which means- “ but Granger's gasp interrupted the horned wizard.

“Like a bomb…” she supplied in such a low voice he barely heard her.

“A what?” exclaimed Draco angrily. He hated not knowing things.

“A bomb is a device that causes an explosion, it projects its destructive power,” Granger-the-dictionary supplied.

“In the muggle world, though. How far can they range?” he asked dismissively, directing his question at Kingsley. He should’ve expected that she would reply anyway.

“In 1945, the United States and the U.K. dropped two bombs in Japan that killed one hundred and thirty thousand people,” she retorted.

“Muggles?” he asked.

“ _People_!” she replied indignantly.

“Enough, both of you,” Kingsley said abruptly, putting an end to what would surely escalate into a wonderful argument. Draco felt supressed, he needed an outlet, he needed something to let go of the day’s built up anger. An argument with Granger would have been just what he needed.

“Your objective will be to investigate the development of this charm, understand its conception and,” he took a deep breath “elaborate a mechanism to reduce it’s potential impact.”

The room went silent. Draco felt like heavy stone had dropped to his feet, rooting him to the spot. Suddenly, a feeling close to despair overtook him. He was completely out of his depth in a deal he couldn’t back out of. Why would they ever think he would be suitable for this job? How could they possibly imagine him and Granger working together on something which was completely out of his area of expertise? Why the hell had he agreed to this? His desperation increased as his thoughts took him to the realisation of what he had willingly walked into.

“Kingsley…” Granger started, tentatively, "the attack in Scotland… Dolohov… you think they were testing the curse?"

“Yes. And it seems to have worked. That’s why we need to get started now. Initially, this was an investigative mission; as of today, this is also a containment mission. And the first order of business is interrogating Antonin Dolohov."

He stood up and prepared to leave. Kingsley’s resolve, his contained attitude suddenly irritated Draco to bursting point.

“That’s it?! Go and figure out a way to stop a new explosive killing curse that literally tortures you to death before you die, and while you’re at it, devise a new counter curse, even though you’ve never learnt the first thing about creating a new spell!” his voice ripe with sarcasm, his respect towards the Minister for Magic long forgotten.

“Mr. Malfoy, we never said counter curse. Nothing can reverse death,” Gilbert Wimple supplied in a slow voice that expressed unnecessary delicacy, like breaking bad news to a child. “We will supply you with the necessary material, but you and Ms. Granger have enough magical capability between you to pull this through."

“Like I said, Malfoy, you were both chosen for a reason,” Kingsley finished.

“Well, for the life of me I cannot see what the reason is. So, please, do enlighten me,” he demanded.

“Unfortunately for you, I don’t have time to indulge your juvenile tantrums, I have to inform a mother and three children that their husband and father is dead. You agreed to this, so sort yourself out and follow your orders.”

The worse thing about Kingsley was that he never yelled. But the timbre of his voice had so much authority and command that, despite every fibre of his being was yearning to retort, he swallowed hard and bit his lips shut.

“You and Granger can reconvene after our de-brief before interrogating Dolohov and Yaxley to work out a strategy. Granger, go and hand over your affairs in the meantime.”

And with that, Kingsley Shacklebolt left, leaving a twitchy Gilbert Wimple shifting his weight from foot to foot in the middle of the now silent room.

Draco detached himself from the wall and without looking at her, said, “I will send you a memo when I’m done,” before heading out of the room to re-live the morning’s events together with his team.

  


Hermione watched as a dishevelled Draco Malfoy stormed out of the room. She was sat at the edge of her seat, still shaken by the onslaught of information dropped on her in the last hour. Rookwood, all this time… while the entire War was focused on Voldemort, no one thought to look at Rookwood. No one thought to understand more of the spy who had eluded so many, obviously skilled enough to be able to make a fool out of the entire Ministry. Then this curse, this wretched, awful curse that could so easily bring back the horrors of the Wars they have lived through. Her breath was coming out of her in short spasms. The weight on her shoulders was immense. The excitement that had coursed through her before knowing what this mission was about had transformed to fear. It consumed her. She understood Malfoy’s reaction, how in the world would she be able to stop this curse? How many of the other Death Eater’s out there knew?

Wimple interrupted her reverie.

“Erm, Ms. Granger? Shall we go back to the Committee headquarters so I can hand you over the project?” he asked.

“Of course,” she breathed.

Walking did nothing to subdue her dread, especially when they were once again within the dimly lit stone walls of the Committee on Experimental Charms offices. She barely realised Wimple had taken her further than before, past the reception, past the door where she had her interview the previous week and through a doorless corridor. He stopped halfway through, between two fire lamps.

“Ms. Granger, this room has been created for your particular use. No one else has access to it, not even I. Please place your hand over this stone,” he pointed without reaching to a stone beneath one of the fire lamps. “You will find all the resources you shall need inside, including the material apprehended at Augustus Rookwood’s safe house, relevant books and supplies. Of course you are welcome to use this room as you please, but as you will no longer use your office and with all the security measures we have attributed to this space, we advise you make good use of it.”

“Thank you,” she replied, still staring at the seamless stone wall.

“Ms. Granger, I trust you understand this was not how I wished this partnership to have started, but alas, death seems to shake the timeframe of life. I leave you with my sincere wishes of good luck. I shall see you soon.”

And with a small bow, the small horned wizard walked back down the empty corridor.

Hermione tentatively placed her hand over the correct stone and to her surprise, felt it become warm to her touch. An antique wooden door appeared, covered with ornate cast iron patterns and framed by a stone archway. It had no doorknob. She pushed it lightly, expecting it to resist, but it moved as if it was made of nothing but air.

She drew a deep breath as she walked in the room. It wasn’t big, it was actually smaller than her current office, albeit the ceiling was double the height. The walls on either side of her were covered with books, a wooden ladder on each wall to reach the higher shelves. In front of her, a rectangular mahogany table, old and sturdy, large enough to seat six, though there were only two, comfortable leather chairs. A large cast iron chandelier hung above the table, suspending lit candles. Behind the table, an old leather sofa lined the back wall where a huge window greeted her with the air of the misty morning.

Slowly, she walked through the room, trying to take in everything. It smelled old, or at least it smelled of old books and she took a deep breath, letting that favourite smell of hers overtake her and calm her senses. She walked to the sofa and sat, trying to calm her breathing. She noticed a small side table next to the sofa where two copper jugs stood. The larger seemed to hold crystalline water, while the smaller pearly white milk. She opened a wooden box beside them and found tea bags. Supplies, she thought.

It was all so surreal, this room, this day. She put her hands over her face and rubbed her temple, focusing on the air entering through her nose, filling her lungs and leaving making a soft whoosh through her lips. When she opened her eyes, she noticed a large wooden chest was set next to the table. Wondering how she might have missed it before, she walked over and flipped it open. It was full of pieces of parchment covered in hand-written notes, drawings and sketches. She felt weak and her hands began to tremble. 

Rookwood’s research. She shut it forcefully.

Remembering there was still Dolohov and Susan Bones and an office to deal with, she decided there was no use to start looking at these now. She stood up and walked determinately out of the room.

An hour later, she had broken the news to a delighted Susan that she would be taking some time to work on a separate project and that she, Susan, would be taking over her cases and receiving a sizeable increase to her salary. She had also packed her office, separating the books she thought could be useful in their mission. They mostly texts and manuscripts about laws regarding dark charms.

As she placed a dead flower in the bin with no second thought (Hermione had stopped taking care of it when Susan had asked her if Ron had sent them to her), a small paper airplane flew to her. She opened it.

His handwriting was tidy, slanted to the right, bearing the clear marks of his aristocratic upbringings. She practically snarled at the words _Go to C.O.E.C._ , lying across the scroll. She hated that she had been put in this situation with him of all people. She hated she would have to be on her guard, that she would be in the constant presence of someone who loathed her, who had belittled her throughout her life and had succeeded in making her feel less than she was. It didn’t matter he had changed sides, there was such a thing as a bad good person. She sent the one box of books and random things, including the half empty bottle of whisky, to her flat and picked up the second one, storming out of the room.

Malfoy was stood by the receptionist’s desk, his arms crossed over his chest. He had cleaned up and changed clothes, but he looked ghostly. His face was paler than usual and he had deep circles under his grey eyes. She didn’t greet him, just walked past and hoped he was smart enough to realise he was supposed to follow her. She didn’t look back but could hear his smooth steps echoing lightly off the stone walls as they took the first corridor. A prickly feeling was bothering the back of her neck - she felt exposed letting him walk behind her. When they reached the secret entrance to their room, Hermione stopped so abruptly he walked in to her, knocking her box to the ground, spilling their contents across the floor.

“Fucking hell, Granger- “ he exclaimed as he stumbled on to her, holding on to her forearm for support.

Unfortunately, he grabbed onto the same spot Ron had most recently handled her. She gave an involuntary groan of pain and yanked her arm back as he steadied himself.

Their eyes met. Hermione swallowed her pain and stared back. He looked confused and as if he was about to speak, but she didn’t give him the chance. She bent down and picked up her things, hating him more than ever, for bossing her around, for reminding her of how weak she was.

She gathered her things and herself and stood back up, her hair coming undone from the knot she had made. He was still looking at her. She turned to the door and placed her hand over the stone.

The door appeared, but she didn’t look back to see his reaction. She pushed it open and walked in with propriety, placing the box over the table.

“Only you and I have access,” she said and turned to see him staring at the book covers, his mask of indifference firmly set upon his face. She followed as he took in the rest of the room and then turned to her.

“I want to talk to you about Dolohov,” he said firmly. “I disagree with Shacklebolt. We shouldn't interrogate him now."

“But,"

"Right now, he has the upper-hand. He knows we’re behind, if we had more information we would have stopped him before. He knows that. We only got him because he messed up. And while he knows he’s got a winning hand, he won’t fold.”

Hermione bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted blood. At times like this, it was so clear to her how much of herself she had lost. It was like all the fight in her was gone.

They held each others gaze in silence.

“What do you suggest we do then,” she replied in a monotone.

“We let him stew. Leave him alone long enough he will start questioning himself. I know Yaxley will break first anyway, he’s a fucking idiot.”

And then Hermione realised why they had chosen Draco Malfoy for this mission. It wasn’t because he was an Auror, it was because he was a Death Eater first. He knew them, how they thought, how they acted. She wondered if he had realised it by now.


	5. The Inevitability of Thunder

He stood in his empty kitchen, staring at nothing in particular. The house-elf was tending to his mother, helping her take her potions. He was left to his own devices and made himself a mustard and roast ham sandwich. It wasn’t particularly tasty, it was dry and he hadn’t managed to slice the ham thinly. But then again, he had never bothered to learn how to feed himself properly. He was drained, exhausted from a night sleeping in a cold tent and completely drawn out from this strenuous day. Every inch of his body was tired, his own skin seemed to weigh him down.

Yet, he couldn’t stop thinking of how different Granger was. He hadn’t had any close contact with her these past five years, thankfully he had no reason to do so. But it shocked him how sallow and thin she looked. He was surprised when she didn’t confront him when he dictated his own terms on Dolohov, and perhaps even more when she whimpered in pain when he walked in to her. It was as if she was weaker, more vulnerable than the girl he knew at school.

Swallowing the last bite of his dry bread with a glass of water, he wiped his hands, grabbed his coat and made his way to his room. As he walked past the drawing room he saw the flames of the lit fireplace leak into the corridor from the open door. He sped up, but Lucius’ drawling voice caught up to him.

“You’ve been avoiding me, Draco."

Draco stopped dead in his tracks. Of course, after a day like today, Lucius wouldn’t let him get away easy.

“How was work? Did you suck Potter’s cock a bit more?” he asked, his voice heavy with spiteful sweetness.

He could hear him behind him now. He turned slowly, trying to keep his calm.

“Hmm no, but Rowle is dead and Yaxley and Dolohov are rotting in a cell somewhere. So, all in all, not a bad day, really,” he replied, doing his best to sound as contemptuous as possible.

He could see the reflected flames dancing in his irate eyes. A whip-like sound cracked through the air and Draco felt his cheek burn in pain, the same cheek he had injured earlier that day. The scar ripped open and blood began dripping down his face.

“You’re a disgrace,” he spoke with such vehemence that Draco could feel it venom seeping from his words.

Draco remained silent but held his head high. He could taste the metallic bitterness in the corner of his mouth. He made a low bow, turned and left, walking quickly into the darkness of the corridor.

He wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve.

Lucius’ had never recovered a wand after the Second War. The Ministry had granted him house arrest in exchange of testifying against his old comrades and he was allowed to live out his old age inside the confines of the Manor. Within a year he began showing signs that he wasn’t in his right mind. Draco had chosen to ignore it. He didn’t know how to deal with his psychotic breaks and Narcissa refused to let him be sent to St. Mungo’s. It was, perhaps, his biggest regret. He should’ve done it anyway, but like so many times before, he had chosen the easier way out.

It got progressively worse, and Draco’s decision to openly change sides and join Ministry did not help. Lucius had violent fits of rage where he attempted, sometimes successfully, to hurt Draco. With no means to channel his anger, it would just explode out of him. With a shot of pain that hurt more than any torture Lucius had ever inflicted on him, Draco swallowed and suppressed the memory of the night his mother tried to intervene, and how whatever magic Lucius was trying to generate had hit her instead of him.

He breathed hard. He would never forgive himself. It was because of him his mother was bedridden, broken, weaker everyday.

 

  


Hermione opened the door to her flat and immediately spotted the box of things she had sent from her office. A pang of anticipation stung through her. As soon as she shut the door behind her, he appeared from the bedroom.

“So, anything you want to tell me, _dear_?” he asked, his voice loaded with angry sarcasm.

Hermione didn't speak at first. She walked in calmly, removed her bag from her shoulder and went to pour herself a glass of water. With everything that happened today she forgot she had sent that box home with no thought to what he might think. She drained her glass and turned to him.

"Did you get fired?" he asked, not a drop of sentiment in his tone.

That riled her up. "I got a promotion," she shot back.

"Why the box?” he asked, nodding towards the floor, his eyes on her.

"I've been asked to participate in a mission, outside my department,” she supplied, rubbing her brow. She was so tired, she really didn’t need the interrogation.

"Doing what?" he asked drily.

"We're supposed to stop a new dark charm from developing,” she let out in one breath.

"We?” he questioned, raising an eyebrow.

She walked straight into that one. Damn her exhausted brain. She hesitated.

"Malfoy and I."

It took him a second to assimilate her response. Then she could physically see the wave of anger building in him. His shoulders tensed and his eyes darkened. He advanced toward her and she made an unsuccessful step back, forgetting she was already leaning against the kitchen counter. He stopped inches from her face, towering over her. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth.

“Are you fucking crazy. Malfoy."

She could see the venom in his eyes, but for once, she couldn’t smell the alcohol in his breath.

“I don’t know why they chose us. You think I’m happy I have to work with him? Trust me, it pains me more than it does you,” she retorted angrily.

“First, Harry. Now you. How the fuck you idiots can trust that scumbag, I will never understand,” he said.

“I don’t trust him, but I don’t really have a choice do I?” she spoke calmly, trying to shield herself from his misplaced anger.

“Were you forced to do this mission?” he asked pointedly.

“No, but,"

“Then don’t give me bullshit about choice,” he said, turning his back on her and walking away.

“There’s something else I have to tell you.”

She hesitated, but she couldn’t keep this truth from him. 

“Dolohov. He was arrested this morning. We’ve got him."

Ron stopped, he still had his back to her, so she couldn’t see his reaction. She wanted to go to him, to hug him and comfort him from all the memories this would bring to the surface.

“Arrested?” he asked as he turned to face her. His face was pale and he looked completely incredulous. “Why the fuck was he _arrested_?!"

“Wha-”

Hermione didn’t understand.

“He should’ve been killed! He didn’t deserve to live! Does Potter know about this?!” he yelled.

“Yes, he- he was there,” she added in a small voice.

And for the first time that night, Hermione felt scared.

He closed the distance between them quickly, grabbing her upper arms with brutal force, slamming her back into the edge of the counter.

“Are you telling me that Harry let him live?” he breathed.

The anger and pain in his voice were so raw. She wanted nothing more but to make it go away. When did she forget how to comfort him?

When did they break?

She was being man-handled and still all she thought about was his pain. She didn’t answer, but kept his gaze, searching deep into his eyes, trying to find a fragment of her Ron.

“Answer me!” he growled, shoving her harder into the marble edge.

She whimpered in pain and he let go, a look of overwhelming disappointment overcoming his expression.

He walked back into their small seating area, pulling a bottle of firewhisky from a bag next to the sofa.

“I hope you and Malfoy have a good laugh together at the expense of my family. Join in with Potter, why don’t you.”

And without even bothering to get a glass, he unscrewed the bottle and took a swig.

Hermione was panting, the pain in her lower back sharp from where it had been forced against the marble edge. She knew she would have bruises on her arms too, they ached dully. But she barely registered it, his words had cut through her like a knife. After all this time, he thought she would betray him. There was a knot in her throat, but she knew she wouldn’t cry. She didn’t have any tears left.

“Ron… killing him wouldn’t have achieved anything,” she tried to reason. She knew he was still sober, and hoping against hope that she would get through to him somehow, she continued, “he’s been murdering, killing muggles. With him alive we can get more information and put a stop to it."

“I don’t give a fuck, he killed my sister, he shouldn’t be breathing, he should’ve been tortured and murdered."

“Ginny wouldn’t have wanted Harry to become a murder, nor you."

“Don’t you dare speak her name, don’t you dare assume you know what she would’ve wanted, she’s dead, now leave me the fuck alone!”

And then he grabbed the first thing within his reach and hurled it at Hermione.

It was a large glass ashtray. He missed, but it hit the cabinet right next to her head, exploding into a cloud of glass shards.

When she removed the arms that she had brought up to her face on instinct, she found his eyes. She could see he regretted it, but it had been too much. She ran to her bag and yanked the door open, fleeing from the apartment as quickly as possible. As she tumbled down the stairs, tears she thought she didn't have, clouded her vision. She heard yet another object being thrown at the wall as she went through the main door out into the thunderous night.

She knocked on Harry’s door one more time, adding despair to the list of things she was feeling. Where would she go if he didn’t answer? But a second later, Harry’s voice came through the door.

“Who is it?” he demanded.

“It’s me, Hermione,” she answered in relief. She had heard the strained sound of her voice as if someone else had spoke it.

Harry opened the door.

“Hermione? What’s wrong?” he asked quickly.

“Harry, please say yes to this? Please can I stay here tonight?” she pleaded, not bothering to hide her despair.

“Yes, always,” he replied, hugging her and pulling her inside. She let herself fall into his shoulder without restraint.

He didn’t ask her what happened; he didn’t need to. After a while, she cleaned her eyes and mumbled an apology into his now wet shirt.

“Want a drink?” he told her.

When they got to the living room, Harry summoned a tumbler and picked the bottle of firewhisky to pour her a drink. When he did, barely anything came out. Hermione looked up at him for the first time and saw his glazed eyes.

“Sorry… it’s been a rough day,” he said, standing up and heading into the kitchen. He came back with another bottle.

Hermione drained her drink and immediately, appreciating the burn on the back of her throat. She poured herself a second while Harry just stared at her.

“Hermione… why do you have shards of glass on your hair?” he asked almost angrily, picking a small shiny rock from her curls.

She didn’t answer, but took another long sip of her firewhisky.

“You told him about Dolohov?” he deduced.

Again, she didn’t answer. She was trembling, her insides felt as fragmented as the broken ashtray. She was scared of what she had done, of what she had dragged Harry into. The guilt overwhelmed her, of having hurt Ron more with her attempt to comfort him, to be true to him. There was a gulf between them and she kept skidding on the edge of the abyss. It kept getting bigger and she had no idea how to cross it. How long would she fail him for?

 

  


Draco stood outside the entrance, staring at the place he knew the door would appear. He knew why he was hesitating, his mind pre-emptively annoyed at being forced to work alongside her. It seemed he would eternally be punished for all his wrong choices in life. In the short history of his career, he had already been partnered with two-thirds of the Golden Trio. If after all this mess was over, someone offered him all the galleons in Gringotts to partner with Weasley, he would move to Tibet.

He placed his hand over the stone she had touched yesterday and almost removed it suspiciously when it warmed under his palm. The door materialised and he pushed it open, walking in with determination.

Were it not for years under Lucius’ training, he would have let the shock of seeing her there, sitting on the table head bent over a scroll, show on his features. Irritation swelled inside of him. Even though it was half six in the morning, she had already gotten in the way of his plan to arrive before her and go through Rockwood’s material alone.

She looked up at him as he walked in, but did not greet or acknowledge his presence. Her hair was carelessly tied in a rough knot over her head, a loose strand on one side. She looked pale, her eyes small and swollen and framed by deep circles of greyish purple. She was wearing a bulky shirt that fit her awkwardly, almost like she had used a Shrinking Charm on a men’s shirt. He was unsure of why that thought came to him, but Granger looked like someone who had abandoned herself a long time ago. It increased his irritation with her.

He put his coffee cup down, hung his coat over a hook next to the door and turned to the wooden chest perched at the end of the table. He began pulling pieces of parchment, hoping to have an overall look at what he was facing before he could examine them properly. Some had sketches and observations, other were just writings.

“The scrolls are ordered chronologically, but apart from that they seem to be under no organisation scheme.”

Her tone was professional, but he could detect a slight edge of annoyance. He turned back to look at her, she moved her eyes from the chest to him.

“I started on the first one, it dates back to when he first started at the Department of Mysteries. I was going to wait for you to arrive so we can work out a method for going about this. That way we can cover ground quickly."

He returned the scroll he had in his hand, walked back to face her from across the table, placing his hands at either side of her. His jaw was clenched tight with irritation.

“Listen carefully, Granger. There is no _we_. This is not a partnership. We are _not_ a team. You will do your work, I will do mine. You will share what you have found and I will grant you the respect of doing the same. Once all the research has been covered, there will be an assessment of where the mission stands and the next steps after that. Did I myself clear?"

His voice had been low, almost a whisper, but the anger seeped through every word. She had held his gaze the entire time, her brown eyes boring heavily into his. It did nothing to soothe his nerves, it only egged him more. He was expecting her to react, to lash out at him, to scream. But she never did. When she replied, her voice was devoid of any emotion.

“Crystal."

What the hell happened to Hermione Granger?


	6. Cloud Front

Rookwood’s research was composed of his own thought process, they resembled journals more than anything else. The problem with it being so personal was that it had been written with no intention of being read by anyone other than him; it seemed he was trying to keep track of what he was doing rather than leave a clear path of instructions. The scrolls were full of abbreviations, single sentences with no context and random tables with numbers and calculations with no key or explanation. There were paragraphs which he had clearly returned to after some time and scribbled notes on the side. Sometimes there were words in Latin or old English, in other places there were names, abbreviated, which also didn’t help.

Hermione had spent most of the morning examining two rolls of parchment of just numbers. Two columns of six or four digits, some circled, some underlined, some crossed out. At first she had believed it was an arithmancy chart, yet over an hour had passed and she had not solved any of it. They simply did not correspond to anything legible, unless Rookwood was writing in code, which was still a daunting possibility. It was just before lunchtime when she had figured it out, realising they were, in fact, dates. Whenever there was six digits, the first two always began with 01 or 02. The four digits that followed or stood alone ranged from 1204 to 1707, though they had not been listed in chronological order. She assumed Rookwood used 01 and 02 for either first or second half of the year, or possibly to list two events within the same year.

She hurriedly rewrote all of the dates in chronological order and then in a separate piece of parchment, repeated the ones he had circled or underlined. She would start with those. Malfoy looked up from his scroll at her excitement, but she refused to look back. His tirade earlier that morning had sent a jolt of anger through her that had made her nerve endings crackle. It had made her want to yell at him for being the arrogant, selfish prick who would be responsible for their mission being a complete failure. How could they possibly work together if they weren’t going to work together?!

The fact was that at six that morning her brain was dealing with the aftermath of very little sleep and the amount of alcohol that had finally allowed her to do so. She had felt his distaste seething through his words, but the anger that bubbled through her was muted. It was there, though, she had felt it, a shadow of her old self yearning to react.

She stood up and began scanning the bookshelves for any titles on Magical History. She piled the books next to her seat and began researching her previously determined priority dates. At some point Malfoy stood and left the room, and she felt her body relax for the first time that day. With a deep breath that loosened her sore back, she silently hoped he didn’t come back. Her wish was not granted though, and he returned after half an hour, munching on a sandwich. She felt her neck twitch painfully as her muscles tightened again.

They worked throughout the afternoon in complete silence. She had written continuously, noting any thing within the dates that could be relevant to the research. She was going over her own notes, underlining themes she thought could fall into different categories, when her quill paused over the date 1214. She had failed to find anything of significance happening in that date, but it had been bothering her. It was as if she knew already but couldn’t remember why. The empty space on the heavily annotated page was mocking her.

She let her quill down and rubbed her temples in frustration. She was tired, her brain heavy from lack of sleep and food. She was overlooking something and she knew it. She stood slowly, wincing in pain as her bruised back reacted from being in the same position too long. She looked to the window and realised it was dark out. She would be going back to Harry’s tonight, he had made her promise she would stay there until things calmed down. It was the only exchange they had the previous evening. They had just sat, lost in their own thoughts, comforted in each others silent presence, drinking to numb their pain.

She stacked her notes in frustration and began tidying her things. She noticed Malfoy had stopped writing, but his eyes never lifted to meet hers. She paused, her mind briefly considering bidding him goodnight. After a second’s hesitation, she realised she had no reason to.

 

  


He saw from the corner of his eye as Granger gathered her things and left without a word. As soon as the door closed he let out slow breath, willing the tension to leave him. The atmosphere had been dense in the heavy silence. He had been on edge the entire day, his attention sparse. Her complacency that morning had thrown him off and sparked a dark curiosity in him.

Something had happened to Granger. The bossy, conceited girl he knew at school would never had let him get away with that. He didn’t even know why he lashed out at her, he knew they would have to work together eventually. He was angry. Angry at Robards dying, angry with Lucius, angry at the immense challenge that lay before him, angry at the prospect of having to endure her constant presence for Merlin knows how long, angry at her state of self-abandonment.

He despised people who felt sorry for themselves. And something in the last five years made Granger lose her sense of self worth. It had sent him over the edge.

Draco had deep-rooted need for control, nurtured within him from an early age. He was fully aware that there were things he could not control, but he made it his prerogative to control the things he could. This stranger that had sat before him was not the person he used to know. It irked him.

He checked the time, gathered the few notes he had made and set out for Diagon Alley.

 

  


Hermione apparated to Harry’s front lawn, feeling the tingling sensation brush past her as she walked through the wards protecting his house. When she knocked, it was Molly Weasley, not Harry, who greeted her with a warm smile at the other side.

“Hermione, dear. It’s so nice to see you,” she welcomed her with a hug.

Hermione returned it, sinking tentatively into the warmth of her embrace. She hoped her surprise to see her there did not show through her silence. She hung a smile on her face as her mother in law pulled back and ushered her in.

“I’m so glad Harry’s taking you out for a nice dinner, it seems like you three never do anything fun anymore.”

Dinner? Three of them? Hermione’s heart jumped a few beats.

At this, Harry came out from the kitchen, a sheepish smile etched on his face.

“Hey Hermione, ready to go? Mrs. Weasley, thank you so much for sitting James,” he said.

“Ah, yes, sure,” Hermione said, her stare piercing daggers into his eyes. He averted them quickly and led the way back to the entrance door.

“No worries my dear, make sure you enjoy yourselves. I spotted the pile of laundry you’ve been neglecting, so I have lot’s to keep me busy,”

Hermione saw Harry’s face tinge red as he gave Molly a guilty look, but she dismissed him before he could even begin.

“I don’t want to hear a word, it’s the biggest pleasure you could give me, letting me take care of you. Be safe!” she coddled.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."

They went back out into the autumn night as she closed the door behind them. He reinforced the protection spells on his home as Hermione stood before him, glaring, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

“Harry, what the hell is going on?” she demanded.

“I thought it would be nice to go out for a meal.”

Forced nonchalance, Harry's attempt to avoid dealing with things he didn't want to.

“Is Ron coming?” her breath got stuck in her throat.

Harry stared at her.

“Harry,"

“No, I don’t think so. I flooed him, he was home, but wouldn’t speak to me. I told him we needed to talk, the three of us, but he just ignored me.”

She didn’t expect anything different. Why did it still hurt?

“Harry, this is called an ambush. It’s not something you do to friends.”

“Would you have said yes if I asked?”

“No, but,"

“There you go, then. Come on, Molly’s here, James’s asleep. Let’s just try and have some fun?”

She stood, biting the inside of her lower lip. She was so exhausted. All she wanted was a bath and then to curl up in bed and sleep the night away. Harry continued before she had a chance to reply.

“Look, Hermione, last night was… hard. This whole weekend was hard. And when I was leaving work today all I could think about was getting home and drinking until I could forget all over again. And when I realised that, I called Mrs. Weasley immediately. Because I can’t do that, Hermione, I can’t give in. I’ve got a whole other human being who depends on me. Who needs me to be healthy and happy, so I need to try. She would’ve wanted me to try."

“No, Harry. She would’ve expected you to succeed,” she conceded, “okay, let’s go for dinner."

He smiled, and she couldn’t help but smile too.

  


  


When Draco arrived at the restaurant, it was busy. Why, he couldn’t imagine, it was a Tuesday. He waited at the entrance as the hostess made her way through the crowded tables to greet him. She was petite, with sleek straight blonde hair and high cheek bones. He followed her eyes as she appraised him, looking from head to toe to head again, her smile following closely behind.

“Good evening sir, how are you today?” she asked sweetly.

“Fine, thanks.” Draco replied, his eyes scanning the room. Maybe Blaise had already arrived and had a table waiting.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“It should be under Zabini?” He didn’t believe Blaise actually had made a reservation, but it was worth a shot.

The hostess scanned the list on her hand, still making an effort to smile prettily at Draco every few seconds.

If this was another night, Draco would have smiled back. He would have given her his Malfoy best and maybe leaned in a little bit, stared straight into her eyes and asked her if she was _sure_ sure there wasn’t a table for him. He would’ve thanked her with a light touch on her arm when she replied she would see if there was something she could do. He might even have asked her name and thanked her again when they sat down.

But tonight he simply did not have the patience to flirt. So he didn’t smile back.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t have a table under that name. I’m afraid we’re fairly busy tonight, how many people are in your party?” she asked.

“Two.”

“Well, if you would like to wait a few minutes, I will try and find you a table.”

“Thank you,” he replied, glancing impatiently at his watch.

He turned to wait for Blaise. As he did,  he was met with Granger and Potter walking through the entrance door ahead of him.

He surely was paying for all of his sins.

He stopped, his shock mirrored back in their faces. Potter recovered quickly.

“Hey Malfoy.”

“Potter,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Weird not having you at training today,” he said as he walked past him, giving him a slight tap on his shoulder as he went to speak to the hostess.

Draco flinched at the gesture and was left to stare at Granger. She was dressed in the same over-sized shirt and black trousers she had worn all day, but her hair was down. It was still curly and untamed, but it seemed to limp around her face. It had less life to it. Her brown eyes were staring at him through heavy lids.

She shifted unsteadily under his studying gaze, averting her eyes to look elsewhere. She looked like she was biting the inside of her bottom lip. Draco wondered briefly if she was keeping herself from saying something.

The tension between them clung heavily and seemed to mount with every second of silence that passed.

He caught Potter looking from Granger to him and gauging the situation as he returned.

“Well, Hermione, it seems they will have our table ready in a few minutes,” he supplied.

Of course, the Saviour of the Wizarding World won’t be denied a table, no matter how busy the bloody restaurant was. Draco had to bite the inside of his cheek to avoid letting his thoughts be verbalised.

With an internal sigh of relief, he saw Zabini walking in from the main road. As he came through the door and recognised the peculiar group that stood by the restaurant’s entrance, a cheeky lopsided smile grew on his face.

“Well, isn’t this a cosy reunion?” Zabini greeted.


	7. When Lightning Illuminates

This was one of the reasons Hermione never did things like eating out anymore, especially in Wizarding London. People, and in particular people you didn’t want to see, were everywhere.

She smiled meekly as Zabini greeted them. She chanced a glance at Malfoy and was somewhat comforted to see he appeared as tortured as she did at that moment.

“Are you joining us for dinner?” Zabini politely asked, a full blown grin now etched on his face.

At this, Blaise Zabini effectively cracked the mounting tension within the circle.

Hermione felt her eyes involuntarily bulge at the panic this thought promoted inside her. Malfoy was bringing to life the expression _if looks could kill_ , and Harry seemed at a complete loss for what to say. Zabini on the other hand, looked genuinely entertained.

“Er," Harry contributed.

“We’re just waiting for our tables, Blaise-  _separate_  tables,” Malfoy corrected himself irritably, “but don’t expect us to be seated before The Boy Who Saved the Bloody Universe is,” he added spitefully.

“Er, we have a reservation, actually,” Harry replied sheepishly.

Malfoy looked dumbstruck at his incorrect assumption. Zabini sniggered at the look on his friends’ face and Hermione felt herself smile for the second time that day. Malfoy didn’t fail to notice it.

“Mr. Potter, your table is ready,” the hostess announced, "if you would just, please, follow me.”

Hermione saw Harry staring ahead and deliberating, and panic shot through her again when she realised what he was internally debating. Taking matters into her own hands, she turned to Malfoy and Zabini and said, “enjoy your evening,” with what she hoped was a polite smile on her face. She then led Harry by the elbow to follow the hostess.

“I feel like we should have invited them to sit with us?” he asked, as she knew he would.

“No Harry, the last three minutes were painful enough, I don’t think I could endure an entire evening of it,” she said firmly, as they sat down at the indicated table.

Hermione looked at the empty set seat between them as a waiter removed the plates and cutlery. Harry must’ve told the hostess they wouldn’t be waiting for a third person after all.

Perhaps in another life somewhere, the three of them were having dinner together, laughing at something silly Ron had said.

“Yeah, well. They're not that bad, really,” Harry interrupted her grief, "I mean, I only see Zabini occasionally around the Ministry but he’s always been decent.”

“I actually see him quite often, he’s at the International Magical Office of Law, sometimes we liaise on international cases. He has always been very cordial to me too,” Hermione replied as she scanned the menu.

“Red or white?” Harry asked.

“Pardon me?"

“Wine.”

“Ah, red please.”

“Malfoy was in a bad mood,” Harry commented, after he ordered a bottle from the waiter.

“Is he ever not?” Hermione shot back.

“I guess he has bad days and better days, but who hasn’t right.” Harry commented.

Hermione didn’t need to reply to this.

The waiter returned with their wine and a basket of bread and butter. Hermione reached out immediately, craving nourishment. She hadn’t eaten all day and considering the last thing she ingested was copious amounts of firewhiskey, it would not be smart to start with wine.

“I noticed it was particularly tense between the two of you. First day didn’t go so well?” Harry asked.

“That would be putting it mildly. He despises me, I can feel his hatred from across the table,” Hermione admitted.

“I don’t think that’s particularly true, at least not anymore,” Harry said.

“Excuse me?” she demanded.

“I don’t. I think he hates what we represent.”

“Isn’t that the same thing, Harry?”

“No, not what we represent as in the values we stand for, more like, what we represent for him,” he clarified.

Hermione picked the bread in her hand as she considered. She saw behind Harry’s shoulders as Zabini and Malfoy sat on a table at the other end of the restaurant, the latter with his back to them.

“Think about it, Hermione. We are the living memories of the person he was at Hogwarts. We were his enemies, opponents, rivals, whatever. We were what fuelled him to make the choices he made, and that’s what he thinks when he sees us. We are a constant reminder of a part of him he doesn’t like,” he finished, taking a sip of his wine.

Hermione was silent as she assimilated Harry’s words.

“I've worked with him for years now, Hermione. The first few months after he joined the team, I thought he would quit because he couldn’t stand being in the same room as me. He didn’t give up though. It seemed his need to prove himself was bigger than whatever hatred he felt for me. So I began to understand. His fight has always been against himself."

Seems like the eternal battle was always against yourself.

“Was it hard for you to trust him? When they assigned you as partners?” she asked.

“Definitely. I think it was even harder for him, though. I made my peace with him before he even passed his training,” Harry concluded.

They were entering dangerous territory. Hermione didn’t want to talk about the War.

Would they ever not, though?

She took a sip of wine and braved on, “because of what Narcissa did?”

“No, because of what he did. Or didn’t do. He didn’t identify us to Bellatrix at Malfoy Manor, yet he knew it was us. There were so many close calls all those months, but I don’t think we were as much in danger of dying than at that night. He stalled our deaths...”

“I know Harry, but he also stood there and watched her torture me,” she said quickly, as if saying it fast would reduce the impact of the memory.

“And I think he regrets that. I mean, I don’t know what he could’ve done to stop her, but when we were in the Room of Requirement searching for the Diadem, Crabbe was trying to kill you and he stopped him."

“No, he stopped Crabbe from killing you! He said Voldemort wanted you alive,” Hermione urged, she couldn’t believe she was having this argument.

Harry stared at her for a while, waiting for her to calm down.

“Hermione, Crabbe tried to hit me with the Cruciatus. He aimed the killing curse at you, not me, and Malfoy tried to stop him. Voldemort didn’t care if you died,” he said carefully.

Hermione didn’t know what to think of this. She stared across the restaurant to the table where he sat.

“He still treats you horribly. That accusation just then, outside,” she continued.

Harry took a while to respond, as the waiter placed their meals in front of them. He began digging into his steak with Weasley-like fervour, “It's just the way he is, the way he will always be. I’ve seen him dedicate himself completely to fight the very people and values he was taught to stand behind. You should see him in the field, Hermione. Its attitude and action that matter. You think I’m bothered about him provoking me like that? I actually thought it was kind of funny to see his face,” he finished with a chuckle and went back to his steak.

Never had it been so clear to Hermione how much Harry had lost in his life. Because this man sat in front of her simply did not have any more space for hatred in his heart. He had let go.

She felt proud and a little envious.

 

  


“Granger is staring at your head,” Blaise commented casually as he took a sip of his wine.

Draco cricked his neck as he stopped himself for automatically looking back.

“How long did you say you have to work with her for?” he asked.

“Undetermined,” he replied drily, picking up his glass.

“And you can’t tell me what you’re doing?” he pushed.

“No, sorry. Confidential.”

“Hmm, how bothersome. Do you know who’s replacing her at Law Enforcement?”

“What Zabini, you think Granger and I sat on a sofa and had a nice little chat about life over a cup of tea? Don’t know, and frankly don't care. Nothing’s changed.”

“Merlin, Draco, I was just asking. And you know everything's changed.”

He ignored him. Blaise kept going.

“I just hope it’s not Bones, she’s just _such_ a Hufflepuff. She’ll be a bore to work with. Not that Granger was particularly fun, mind you, but she’s efficient.”

“You worked with Granger before?” Draco asked curiously.

Blaise shot him a look, reminding him he had just said he hadn't cared about the subject.

“Yeah, a few times. Whenever we have extraditions she’s involved, and sometimes her cases have repercussions in other countries, so we do the liaison."

An internal struggle began going on inside Draco's mind. Part of him just wanted to not think about Granger more than he already had to, but on the other hand, he wanted to know what happened to her.

“She seems different,” he commented with a small shrug of his shoulder.

“How so?” he asked.

“I don’t know, not how I remember her at school."

“You mean she hasn’t hexed or punched you yet?”

“Funny guy, you are, Blaise.”

Blaise laughed casually, “yeah mate, of course she’s different. Bloody War hero and all. She’s scarred.”

“So now you need an Order of Merlin to be scarred?”

He hated people who made excuses for themselves, especially validated excuses.

“Not saying you aren’t, I mean, who isn’t. But yeah, you know. The War kept going for them didn’t it…  Potter’s wife murdered, they we’re really close weren’t they? Then Weasley,” he continued.

“What happened to Weasley?” he asked. Draco wondered if he had missed something in the papers.

Blaise took another sip of his wine, eyeing him carefully.

“Dunno much about it, I know he lost his job after his sister died. Rumour is he’s depressed, doesn’t leave the house."

Another surge of irritation blasted through Draco. He always knew Weasley was a lazy git, but depression seemed like such a cowardly cop out. Everyone had fucked up lives. Giving up was just the easy way out.

“Must be shit to be married to someone like that,” Blaise continued.

Draco chanced a glance back at their table. She seemed deep in thought. He looked at the subdued, weak, sorry version of Granger that he knew.

“Yeah, well, they deserve each other,” he concluded.

Blaise frowned at him, but refrained from commenting. He chose to change the subject instead.

“Right, enough about Granger. Guess who I bumped into yesterday? Daphne. She’s looking fit, my friend. And she tells me Astoria is single again. What do you say we arrange a nice little double date with the Greengrass sisters?”

 

  


Hermione and Harry were walking through the Atrium early next morning when Ernie McMillan caught up with them.

“Harry, Hermione, how do you do?” Ernie greeted, extending his hand. Joining the Undersecretary Office did nothing to assuage his formal pompous mannerisms.

“Not bad, how are you, Ernie?” Harry replied back.

“I have a message from the Minister, he wishes me to tell you Gawain Robards’ funeral will take place this coming Friday,” then he turned to Hermione, “he wishes to see you and Malfoy at ten this morning."

Hermione nodded, “thanks, Ernie.”

She walked into their room a few minutes later and wasn’t surprised to see him there, examining a roll of parchment. She took a deep breath and walked over to what had been silently decided as her side of the table.

“Malfoy, Kingsley wants to see us at ten.”

He didn’t look up but nodded stiffly as an acknowledgement. She paused.

“Also, Robards’ funeral is this Friday.”

He met her eyes and held her gaze for a couple of seconds. “ok, thank you,” he replied and returned to his scroll.

She was a little taken a back at his politeness, maybe she underestimated what Robards meant to him. She removed her bag and set to work, retrieving the scroll she had worked on yesterday. Determined to use her rested mind, she re-read her notes with fresh eyes.

A lot had happened at each date Rookwood had marked, but Hermione knew she was looking for elements of dark magic and their development. The most evident date was 1717, when the Cruciatus, Imperius and Avada Kedavra were deemed Unforgivable. So Hermione assumed the dates were related to the origin or development of at least two of those. Trying to detach herself from the weight this brought to the pit of her stomach, she began filtering the information she had gathered yesterday.

By nine forty-five, Hermione had identified occurrences - from deaths to laws - related to Avada Kedavra and Cruciatus at each date Rookwood had highlighted. All except for one: 1214. She still couldn’t shake the feeling she knew exactly why that date was important, but there was nothing to be done now.

“Are you coming?” Malfoy asked brusquely from the door.

Hermione stood and followed him out. He walked stoically through the Ministry, not bothering to wait or check if she was following. At the lifts, she stood at the back, leaning against the wall, contemplating the wizard that now stood with his back to her. He seemed less irritable today, yet just as full of hatred.

She had thought about what Harry had said, and as much as she understood his analysis, she didn’t completely agree with him. His hatred towards her had always been personal. It went beyond his hatred for Harry, because she was also the embodiment of everything that he was taught to hate. The muggle-born who had no place in his world. The only way he could stop hating her was if she ceased to exist.

The lift stopped and they made their way through to the Minister’s office. Kingsley was at the door, signing scrolls at his assistant’s desk. He lifted his eyes when they walked in.

“Good, you’re on time. Come in.”

They followed Kingsley into his office, Hermione closing the door behind them. Hermione took the seat gestured to her, but Malfoy stood by the wall, arms crossed over his chest. She began noticing the pattern. It was as if by not taking centre stage he was detaching himself from the situation. It was such a stark contrast to the boy who walked around Hogwarts' corridors as if he owned them.

“Getting along well, I see?” Kingsley asked, but neither made a move to reply.

“I called you here for two reasons. First, to inform you Gawain Robards’ funeral will be held this Friday at ten in the morning, at Appleby Town Cemetery. It will be a closed service, only family and close acquaintances, but I expect you both to be there. Hermione, please extend the invitation to Ron. He was also trained by Robards and I am sure he would he would have appreciated his presence.”

Hermione felt a weight drop to her stomach. She had not told Ron about Robards. It wasn’t that she hadn’t intended to, but things had escalated to such an extent, she had never come round to actually giving him the news.

She nodded.

“Secondly, can either of you please explain to me why Dolohov and Yaxley have not been questioned yet?!"

It seemed like all the niceties were out of the way, and Kingsley Shacklebolt was seriously angry. Neither Malfoy not Hermione ventured speech.

“No? No one’s going to pipe up? I assume you still remember your training and know just how important the first hours after capture are for an interrogation? I want an answer, now.”

“Before you accuse me of being negligent with my profession again, I would like to remind you that you selected me for this. You’re going to have to trust me and let me actually do the job,” Malfoy said coldly.

Hermione’s mouth fell open. Did he really just tell the Minister for Magic to back off?!

“Malfoy, you still report to me, so take two steps down right now,” warned Kingsley.

“You entrusted this investigation to this team, so you need to trust we will make the right decisions,” he retorted.

Hermione’s heart rate was accelerating, she was not in the habit of talking back or challenging her superiors. She wouldn’t do it to teachers at Hogwarts, why the hell would she do it to the Minister for Magic? But part of her knew that if they were going to achieve anything, she had to show Malfoy they were better as a team.

“It was a strategic decision on our part, we feel timing is particularly sensitive in this case,” she said calmly.

Kingsley turned his gaze to her, but she did not avert her eyes.

“Ok, but I want this done by the end of the week, or I’ll have the International Confederation of Wizards on my case about Wizard’s Rights.”

With that, Malfoy stormed from the room. She excused herself from the office but he was nowhere to be seen. She found him angrily pacing the back window of their room, clearly fuming. As soon as she walked through the door, he rounded on her.

“What the fuck was that, Granger?”

“Excuse me?”

“In there! What is it with you Gryffindors and this incessant need to play the hero?! I don’t need your fucking help!” he was shouting now.

“Hero?! I wasn’t playing the hero, I was agreeing with you!” Hermione shot back, adrenaline pumping through her, coursing through her veins like it hadn’t in years.

“I had it handled!”

“Handled? You were basically telling the Minister for Magic to fuck off!” she shouted back, throwing her hands in the air in exasperation.

“Oh so Holy Hermione Granger had to come in and make it all better?!”

“We’re a team, Malfoy, whether you like it or not, we’re doing this together! All I did in there was support your decision!”

He closed the distance between them. When he spoke next he was inches from her face, so close she could feel the electricity sparking from him.

“You know, you wear the War Hero title like its a fucking badge pinned to your chest, but I think you’re just hiding behind it, using it to justify every fucked up aspect of your sorry excuse for a life.”

It was like she had been punched in the gut. The malice in his words were just an extra kick, because he had hit the nail right on the head.


	8. Still Air

Draco knew it had been a low blow. He had seen the shadow of pain darken her eyes. She went quiet, holding his gaze while backing away slowly. A second later she had left the room.

His mind was on overdrive and every hair on his arm was standing on end. He couldn’t believe how he had ended up here. Accepting this mission was the worse decision he could have ever made. Why did he say yes? He should back out now, go back to the Auror Office and to his stable existence. There he had a clear path, a reason to wake up in the morning and keep on living. Being here, stuck in this miserable room with this self-righteous girl and a daunting task, was just a constant reminder of his failures in life. Of course Shacklebolt had folded the minute she uttered a single word.

He knew there was no backing out though. He had signed a contract and quitting would mean losing his job. And then he had no idea what he would go back to.

He closed his eyes and stretched his neck, the cracking sound relieving him from the strain in his muscles. He sat down and went back to his research.

 

Hermione was walking down the empty street, shivering slightly. She wished she had at least remembered to grab her scarf. She turned right and walked down the tight passage that sloped downwards leading to the river. She crossed Embankment, crossed the footpath and arrived at the edge of the Thames. She leaned over, watching the river run, its deep grey currents mirroring the clouds above, swirling rapidly across from her.

Running her hands through her hair, she silently wished for peace. Her blood was still pumping from their fight, and her emotions were running through her like the currents on the river. She would never win with him. When she had spoken up, it was with the intention to show him she was on his side. But in his eyes whatever she did would always be against him. He saw her trying to swoop in and solve the problem and come out with the glory. He saw the mudblood who had outdone him yet again. Malfoy had no idea what her life was like, did he think she liked being a War Hero? She despised that title, there were no heroes in wars. There were only survivors. She was still trying to survive everyday that came by.

Just as he said, hiding behind her sorry excuse of a life.

With a pang that brought tears to her eyes, she felt her heart swell and ache for Ginny. Ginny, who would’ve stood beside her now with no hint of pity in her eyes and told her it was her own fault for letting Malfoy get to her. She would’ve told her to swallow her tears, get back inside and do her job. 

She missed her more than anything else.

The wind picked up and Hermione felt a deep shiver go through her. That brief moment of her life after the War, that time when it seemed nothing could possibly go wrong - the _euphoria induced utopia_ , as she liked to call it - seemed so far away now it was like watching someone else’s memory in a pensieve. She felt disconnected from the people in it. It barely seemed real. Ginny’s death had shattered it.

Hermione lost more than her friend the day she died, she had lost faith.

 

Draco lifted his eyes when she walked back in the room. Her cheeks were tinged red and her hair was wilder and unkempt. She had obviously been in outside in the cold wind. She stood behind her chair like she had that morning when she told him about Robards’ funeral.

“You know nothing about my life,” she said. Her anger was clear but she was speaking calmly.

“Took you this long to come up with a comeback, Granger? You’ve lost your touch,” he interrupted.

“I don’t care about your problems, Malfoy, so leave mine alone. What I care about is getting this project done as soon as possible so I don’t ever have to exchange another word with you again,” she continued, without losing her composure.

He held his chin up, “and hopefully never have to look at your face again either.”

“Great, now we know we have at least one objective in common,” she finished, taking her seat and going back to her work.

Draco turned back to his own work, determined not to let her infuriate him again. He returned to the text he had been working on for the past day and a half.

Rookwood had began to explore the way the brain processed pain. Initially, his notes went on about how pain happened - stimulus, reception, transmission, processing - and was straightforward enough to understand. He then went on to investigate the process of pain without the stimulus and focused particularly on something he entitled nociception.

If his latin was correct, nociception translated to pain perception. How he wished the rest of the text had been that easy to figure out. From there, the research had become extremely detailed, with terms and references such as:

_How can_ δ _mechanothermal receptors be myelinated to increase speed from stimulus to the somatosensory cortex?_

_What if reversing flow of synapses through spinothalamic tract could expand nociception through neurons?_

Baffled, he had picked the only book on healing in their library and went on to figure out what in the world a delta mechanothermal receptor was. The day lumbered on and he still hadn’t found any answers.

He could feel her eyes on him from across the table. He lifted his own to meet hers and saw her biting the inside of her lower lip, like she had done the previous evening. A small crease to her brows told him she was contemplating speech. After a while, she seemed to concede her battle.

“Do you know of anything significant that occurred in 1214?” she asked.

Draco took a deep breath. He racked his brain, trying to think back to his History of Magic knowledge. Wasn’t Uric the Odd from around that time? Maybe earlier, he thought. Granger was not discouraged by his silence.

“So, Rookwood had a list of dates written down and in all of them I’ve managed to find some significant event regarding either Avada Kedavra or Cruciatus, but 1214 was underlined and circled in his notes, and I still haven’t found anything,” she ranted in frustration.

“No, I don’t recall anything,” he admitted.

“I feel like I know what it is, though. Like I _should_ know,” she said, her frustration showing as she frowned deeply.

He scowled. Merlin forbid know-it-all Granger did not know something. Could she even hear herself speak? Feeling the need to reveal to her that she did not know everything, he pushed his own text forward pointing at the mysterious words he still hadn’t figured out.

“What’s this about?” she asked, genuinely interested.

“Pain,” he replied simply.

She looked up at him as he said it, but returned to the text almost immediately, brow creased as she absentmindedly caressed the edge of her mouth with the tip of her quill. It seemed that this Granger was a little more comfortable in her own skin when she was immersed in work. If he ignored her general dejected appearance, he could almost see her at Hogwarts, trying to solve a problem in their Arithmancy class.

“Rookwood was exploring pain perception in the brain. Then he goes on to use words I haven’t heard any healer speak of,” he said, pointing to the appropriate part of the text with his quill. He leaned back on his chair to watch her frustration grow.

“There’s a reason you’ve never heard them,” she reasoned, “they’re muggle terms.”

“Excuse me?” he asked, leaning forward again. Rookwood using muggle terms?

“You heard me correctly. These are neurobiology terms that explain how the body assimilates, or reads, pain. In these questions here I’m guessing he’s trying to figure out how to potentialise the perception of pain on a microcellular level,” she finished.

So trying to humiliate her a little bit had backfired completely. He pretended to ignore that was his initial intention, as curiosity got the best of him.

“So you think he was trying to explore how to increase pain perception in muggles?” he asked.

“Maybe,” she considered. “Maybe he was trying to understand the science behind Cruciatus so he could apply it to his own curse.”

“You just said these,” he pointed at the notes, "explore how pain is processed in muggle bodies.” His exasperation was beginning to show.

She didn’t reply immediately, but looked at him like he had never recalled her doing so before. She didn’t seem angry or frustrated, but her eyes were searching, as if she was trying to understand something.

Granger spoke calmly and to his utter surprise, he couldn’t detect the usually present, patronising tone, “Malfoy, do you know the difference between wizards and muggles? Genetically speaking, it’s one gene. One recessive, not dominant, gene that manifests magical abilities. The rest is pretty much the same.”

The lack of condescension in her voice was unprecedented and it threw him off. He tried to summon the anger at her trying to school him, but failed. His brain was seemed more preoccupied in trying to process the information. He managed a scowl just not to live down her expectations of him.

In all those years of Lucius’ teachings on the inferiority of muggles, he had never once mentioned it was all down to one, single, non-dominant gene.

 

Around six in the afternoon, Hermione decided it was time to go home. She wrote a quick note to Harry to inform him and charmed the paper airplane to find its recipient. She watched as Malfoy followed the interdepartmental memo fly out of the room as she packed her things. She walked to the door and hesitated with her hand on the frame.

“See you tomorrow,” she said, trying to keep any sort of emotion from seeping through her words.

He lifted his head and, without looking at her, nodded curtly.

She began her usual walk back to her apartment. It had been a whirlwind day. Productive in the morning, then infuriating, then grief-stricken, then, well, interesting. It was as if fighting with him had brought back a little of her old self. Was arguing with Malfoy, if she ignored the harmful content of the fight, somehow, comforting? It was as if his completely nonsensical outburst had awoken in her a need to fight back. Almost as if he was coaxing the unabashed girl he knew at school out of her.

It hadn't lasted long. As soon as he hit close to home, she did what she did best these days: she had run.

Then there was that moment in which, for the first time in her life perhaps, she tried to understand what made up who he was. His question had no malice to it; it had been a genuine doubt, as if she had contradicted an obvious fact. He had been taught muggles were inferior to wizards, and that had been ingrained in every fibre of his being. It was as if someone had told her that two plus two did not, in fact, equal four.

She walked the rest of the way contemplating her day and the renewed sense of courage that had inspired her to come back to her own home. Minutes later, she found herself outside the main entrance to her house, staring at the lit window on the first floor. She found, however, that Ron was not home when she walked in. The flat itself was a complete mess - discarded bottles, takeaway boxes and the shards from the broken ashtray that had been aimed at her, littered the floor. She had a shower, changed into her own clothes for the first time in two days and then set to make their home liveable again.

It was around eleven when she heard the sound of apparition outside her door. She put the book she was reading down and sat up straight, taking a deep, calming breath. To her surprise though, it wasn’t Ron who walked through the threshold, but George, looking tired and somewhat lifeless.

“Hermione, I’m sorry, didn’t expect to see you,” he said, startled.

“Erm, right back at you, George,” she said, standing up as he hugged her briefly.

“Is Ron around?” he asked, searching the flat with his eyes.

“No, I thought it was him coming in now,” she admitted.

“Oh.”

“Have you not seen him recently?” she asked, trying to keep the worry from her voice.

“Well, yes, he was at mine last night. But he left after we had some food. He’ll be around soon though, I’m sure,” he said, probably trying to do the same for her.

They were silent for a few moments.

“Would you like a drink? Or a cup of tea?” she ventured.

“No thanks, I should get going, really.” he said, making his way to the door. He stopped just before leaving and turned to her before saying, “I’m really sorry by the way, for the way things are. I know it hasn’t been easy. I wish there was something I could do to help.”

Gratefulness overflowed through her at that moment. He hadn’t asked her what was happening or how she was feeling, he hadn’t offered words of false hope or surmised potential solutions in cliché statements. It was just a genuine and sincere acknowledgement of their struggle and his, or anyone’s, inability to help.

“I know,” she said with a sad smile. “Thank you, George.”

She slept badly. The night was atypically warm and humid and her winter duvet was heavy, making her sweat and fidget and her pyjamas stick to her skin. She woke up later than she would have wanted, noticing there was no sign Ron had come home. She showered and dressed in a hurry. She finished the slice of toast and marmalade she was eating, packed the book she had separated the night before and walked out to apparate to an alley near Tottenham Court Road. As soon as she began walking down the street, she immediately regretted her choice of outfit. The weather had remained uncommonly warm and the black turtleneck top she had put on, even though it was made of thin cotton, was stifling.

She entered the muggle bookshop a few minutes later, found two books that would cover the topics without going into extraneous detail, before paying and apparating to the Ministry.

 

Draco checked his watch. Nine-thirty in the morning. Had she decided to give herself a day off? He scowled at the empty room. Not that he cared what the hell she was doing, but this clearly contradicted her previous statement of wanting to finish this as quickly as possible. Bothered by the uncharacteristic warmth of the day, he stood up and went to the cafeteria to buy some cold pumpkin juice.

When he returned, she was sat on the table, already working on her notes. She said, “good morning,” without raising her head.

“You call this morning?” he replied in a huff.

She looked up. She was wearing a top that hugged her features better than the drat that she had been wearing the previous days. Her hair was tied up in a knot over her head, probably to try and alleviate the uncommon October heat.

“I had some errands to run,” she said, looking back down.

He walked to his seat and noticed there were three books placed next to his notes.

“The top two are university textbooks on pain perception, they should cover the topics Rookwood was studying well,” she said, without ceasing to write.

He picked up _Understanding Pain: Exploring the Perception of Pain_ and flipped through it. It was full of diagrams and illustrations with note boxes with highlighted text. He went through the next, _Pathophysiology of Pain Perception_ , noting it had less illustrations. He turned to the back cover and scanned the summary quickly, noting it seemed to focus more on the mind's perception of pain.

He put both of them down and picked up the third. _The Wizard Gene: Mapping the Magical Genome_.

“And this one?” he asked irritably.

She still didn’t look up when she answered, but he could see her cheeks flushing when she replied with nonchalance, “thought you might find it interesting."

He flicked the book to the edge of the table, hopefully demonstrating that she was being presumptuous to assume she knew what he would find interesting, and sat down to his work.

Much to his dismay, the textbooks were undoubtedly very helpful, which meant he progressed rapidly through Rookwood’ work but felt increasingly irritated at her. It was almost lunchtime when he noticed her shuffling and rummaging through her bag. He observed her from behind his book as she took out an apple. She rearranged the knot of hair above her head and pulled the long sleeves of her top up to her elbows.

With shock, he noticed both her arms were splotched with bruises. They were scattered throughout her skin, tinged yellow and purple, all the way up her arms, disappearing into the black sleeves. She brought the apple to her mouth and it crunched loudly as she bit into it. 

Only then did she realise he was looking at her.

 

Hermione full on choked on her bite of apple. Coughing loudly, she dropped the remaining apple to the table to free her hands and pull her sleeves back down. She forced the bit in her mouth down the right channel, tears stinging her eyes as more coughs tried to expel foreign objects from her lungs. Panic shot through her as she met his eyes.

Her heart was racing. He had clearly seen the marks that displayed the varying levels of healing bruises on her arms. He was looking at her in shocked disbelief, as if he didn’t know who was the person sitting across from him.

She stood up, unsure of what else to do. Her voice did not hide the strain in her vocal chords as she excused herself and said, “I’m going for lunch,” before fleeing the room.

Her heart would not stop hammering in her chest as she walked with deceitful calm to Harry’s office. How could she have been so careless? She had completely forgotten to mask her bruises that morning. It was the damned, stifling heat, it had clogged her brain. Why was it so warm and why hadn’t magical maintenance done something about it?! She had absolutely no idea what he would think or deduce. Because if there was one thing she knew was that Draco Malfoy was analytical and observant, he would dissect and analyse this bit for bit until he had a conclusion.

But he wouldn’t actually say anything, would he?

Maybe she could say she was playing quidditch at The Burrow with Teddy and Victoire. No, he wouldn’t believe that for a second. She took the lift, standing in a corner at the back, tapping her fingers incessantly against her crossed arms. She had taken a bad fall down the stairs that morning, that was all.

The air _whooshed_ through her lips as she exhaled noisily, she tried to calm her mind. She would just ignore it. He wouldn’t say anything and if he did, she would tell him to mind his own business. The lift opened and she walked out, her feet finding their way to where she was going. She would just ignore it, it would be fine.

She knocked on Harry’s door, but when she heard, “Hey Hermione!” it was from behind her and not from inside the office.

Harry was walking from the direction of the training room. He was in his auror uniform and drenched with sweat.

“Horrible heat, isn’t it?” he said, wiping his brow with the back of his arm.

“Horrendous,” was her reply. “Free for lunch?” she asked hopefully, as he opened the office door and they walked inside.

“Yeah, sure, I just need to go through my mail quickly, the new Seeker Weekly should have arrived this morning,” he said.

Hermione stood in front of his desk as he opened his mail, her feet tapping the floor nervously.

“How was last night?” he asked.

“Last night?” she asked without thinking, her mind elsewhere.

Harry looked up from opening a parcel and asked, “you went home, didn’t you?”

“Oh! Well, he actually wasn’t there. Didn’t come home at all.”

Harry just stared at her for a few seconds, then went back to opening his parcel. He removed a small book Hermione was so familiar with, she could recite it in her sleep.

A tingling sensation began running through her as she saw Harry place T _he Tales of Beedle the Bard_ over his desk and move on to the next envelope.

Slowly, she moved forward and picked up the book, turning it in her hand with reverence as the tingling sensation began to accelerate the working of her brain.

“Yeah, had to order a new one. James is going through an artistic phase. He decided to give each of the stories in the book his own rendition in illustration," he said with a chuckle.

Hermione ignored him. Her fingers were still tracing the book’s cover when it suddenly hit her like a slap on the face. 1214. The Peverell Brothers.

“I’m so sorry, Harry, but I have to go!” she said, placing the book down and tearing herself from the room.

“Hermione, everything ok?!” he asked nervously.

“Yes, fine! I’ll speak to you later!” she yelled back, but she was already out of the office by the time she finished her sentence.


	9. How to Hide in the Fog

Draco sat, motionless, staring at the partly bitten apple she had left behind. What in the world had happened to her? She had clearly suffered some sort of physical aggression, that was unmistakable. His first assumption was that she had been in some sort of situation where she could not have used her wand to defend herself. Maybe attacked by a muggle somewhere in a populated area of muggle London?

He closed his eyes and pictured it: he could see her walking, a man coming from behind and attempting to steal her bag. He could see her reacting to reach for her wand or what the aggressor might have thought was something else to defend herself with, so a physical struggle ensues. He pushes her against a wall, using extreme force by restricting her arms and thus causing the bruises. That would have been plausible enough.

Two very important factors put a spanner in that theory. The first being her immediate reaction to realising he had noticed the bruises. She had been so startled she had actually choked on the apple - he had been seconds from using _anapneo_ on her. Then she literally dropped, not placed, the apple back on the table so she could cover her arms again as quickly as possible.

It had been a lapse in judgement to put her sleeves up. It would have been acceptable for one to feel self-conscious about having ugly bruises up and down ones arms. However, something told him Granger wasn’t the type to be self-conscious about her appearance, judging by the way she dressed, anyways. It would be more reasonable to think Granger was embarrassed about not having been able to defend herself when attacked. Yes, that sounded more in line with her character.

If she had simply finished her bite, placed her apple on the table and then calmly pulled her sleeves back down while telling him to sod off, he would’ve accepted embarrassment as a correct analysis. But that was not what happened. Her attitude led him to believe that those bruises represented not embarrassment, but shame.

Then there was the second telling point that discredited his theory. Draco was no stranger to bruises. He had his fare share of them, whether caused by quidditch, his father, Granger herself or war. He knew some of the bruises in her arms had been inflicted more recently than others. The telling yellowish tint on some and the deeper purple on others were evidence of that. Which meant only one thing: whoever had attacked her had done so on more than one occasion. Which in turn indicated she either found herself at the wrong place and at the wrong time on a regular basis, or, she knew her attacker.

Perhaps she had frequent contact with children. He was sure he had seen the Weasley hoard parading with minions around Diagon Alley. Maybe she liked to play rough with kids? _Maybe_ she liked to play rough in bed? He lifted an eyebrow at the thought, now there was an interesting image - the eternal bookworm, goody-two shoes, War Hero, Order of Merlin First Class, Hermione Granger, a freak in the sheets. He smirked to himself.

At this moment, the door flung open and Granger stormed into the room. She turned to him, frowned slightly at his smirk, but let the thought go.

“Malfoy, I think I’ve got something,” she said, slightly out of breath.

He turned to her but refrained from showing any other emotion.

“How much do you know about the Peverell famiily?” she asked, pulling at the collar of her turtleneck top, still trying to catch her breath. “What is up with this heat today,” she exclaimed, more to herself than to him.

“Peverell? I know it’s an ancient wizarding name, but it died out. Why?” he asked interestedly.

“Ok. How much do you know about the Tale of the Three Brothers?” she continued.

He took a few seconds to respond.

“The children’s story? As in the one in Beedle the Bard?” he frowned, remembering the bedtime story his mother used to read to him.

“Exactly like in Beedle the Bard,” she said, taking the seat in front of him. It seemed she had all but forgotten the earlier mishap and was back into student mode.

“Yeah, I know it. Get to the point, Granger,” he said impatiently.

She was biting the inside of her bottom lip again. He sighed in exasperation, a few days with her and he could already identify her tells. It was infuriating.

“Ok, since this is a classified mission, I suppose there’s no harm in telling you,” she mumbled, once again talking to herself and not him. Maybe the heat did funny things to her brain.

“Tell me what, Granger." It wasn’t a question, but more like a barked order.

She recoiled slightly and glared back at him, but regained her composure before continuing, “The Tale of the Three Brothers is a fable, written by Beedle to teach children about the consequences of arrogance, greed and selfishness. The Deathly Hallows, however, are real."

Draco took a second to assimilate this. A short laugh escaped his lips.

“Are you about to tell me you’re a Hallow Hunter, Granger? I thought you were all about facts and figures, not myths and legends,” he laughed.

“The Tale of the Three Brothers is the fictionalised story of Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus Peverell,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him mocking her. He could see the seriousness in the eyes that bore straight into him now.

“Granger, please don’t tell me you believe that nonsense, seriously,” he said. He was still laughing, but part of him was actually worried now.

“They’re real, Malfoy,” she retorted, her patience slipping. “You know the Elder Wand is, you were it’s master for the better part of a year,” she added.

A surge of anger ripped through him at the reminder. As if he needed another jab at his failures. “Unbeknownst to me, as you well know,” he said spitefully.

“How about the cloak? You’ve seen Harry disappear under that how many times now?” she asked pointedly.

How many times indeed. He had always been jealous of that cloak at Hogwarts, although he did come to appreciate it more when it came particularly handy in Auror missions.

“So, what about the cloak? Invisibility cloaks are a purchasable good,” he replied.

“Malfoy, he’s had that same cloak since Christmas day, first year. His father for I don’t know how many years before him. It renders unsurpassed invisibility, it’s impervious to summoning charms. A regular invisibility cloak, no matter how expensive or how good it may be, is still a cloak, albeit a charmed one. And charms wear off with time,” she argued.

Draco was silent, trying to find fault in her reasoning.

“Harry inherited his cloak,” she added. “He’s Ignotus’ descendant."

“Not possible,” he shook his head, but his resolve began to waiver.

“The stone,"

“You’re not going tell me you believe there’s a stone that brings dead people back to life?!” he shot at her.

“-was passed on to the Gaunts, from whom, I assume you know, Voldemort was a descendant,” she continued, despite his interruption.

Draco felt silent and just stared back at her.

“It eventually came into his possession. He didn’t know what it was, not having grown up in a wizarding home and therefore unaware of Beedle the Bard. If he had, he would have probably recognised the Peverell Coat of Arms,” she pulled a piece of blank parchment towards the middle of the table. “Wand, stone, cloak,” she narrated as she drew, “engraved on the stone."

Draco glanced at the parchment and then back at her.

“But he didn’t. So he turned it into a Horcrux,” she finished.

He met that with more silence. Where the hell did she learn about Voldermort’s past? Bellatrix would have given her wand arm to have known half of this.

“I’m going to skip some of the details, but by May 1998, when he finally faced Voldemort at the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry was in possession of the cloak, obviously, the stone, and the loyalty of the Elder Wand after... overpowering you at the Manor,” she finished rather sheepishly.

He ignored the casual reference to his blunder by biting down on his tongue.

It took a couple of seconds for the meaning of her words to connect to reasoning. “You’re telling me Potter finished the Dark Lord because he was the true master of death?!” he asked incredulously, his tone bordering on disgust.

Of course. I mean, the world isn't skewered enough, of course Scar Head discovered possibly the most hunted legendary artefacts in wizarding history and defeated the evil dark wizard with them. I mean, why wouldn’t he.

His breath was coming out in short breaths now. He glanced back at Granger and noticed she was watching his reaction.

“How is it no one knows about this?”

“Harry preferred to keep it classified.”

Of course.

“He’s got the three of them, then? He’s truly the owner of the Deathly Hallows?” he asked. The words coming out of his mouth sounded absolutely insane.

“Hm, not exactly. He, er, threw the stone away and… and the Elder Wand too, so it’s power will die with him,” she finished.

Draco actually laughed mirthlessly now. Right, of course. Master of Death, Saviour of Wizarding Kind, Noble and Stupid, Harry Fucking Potter.

He rubbed his eyes, “as enlightening as this was, Granger, please tell me what this has to do with the research?"

“1214,” she said simply.

“Pardon?”

“1214, the date I couldn’t figure out. The Peverell Brothers are from that time. It’s believed Antioch and Cadmus perished in 1214,” she said, he could sense her excitement building again.

He just looked at her impatiently. Did she always need a reaction from an audience? As though to prove his point, she actually stood up and began pacing, flourishing her hands with excitement as she went on.

“No one really knows the exact date Avada Kedavra was invented, or Cruciatus for that matter. There are stories of fatal wand duels throughout the middle ages, but if I’m not mistaken, none earlier than 1214. According to the story, after Antioch gets the Elder Wand-“

“Which was fashioned by Death itself, don’t forget,” he mocked.

Hermione stopped her pacing and turned to him. “Actually Dumbledore thought the Peverell brothers were just exceptionally gifted wizards who devised these artefacts themselves, and the whole Death character in the story was Beedle’s fictionalisation of it,” she said, rushing through the parenthesis before resuming her pacing and her ranting.

“So Antioch uses the Elder Wand in a duel and wins,” she said. Then she began to speak as if reciting, “leaving his enemy dead upon the floor, the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he boasted loudly of the wand he snatched from Death himself, and of how it made him invincible…” she trailed off.

“You know it by heart?”

“Shut up, please.”

Only Granger would ask someone to politely shut up.

"What if… what if that was it, the origin of the killing curse?! Why would he have boasted of it making him invincible? Maybe because duels weren’t fatal before! Antioch, who was known for being a violent and combative man, created an extremely powerful wand which intensified his power. He enters a duel and kills his opponent. If duels weren’t fatal before, then this time there was absolutely no chance his opponent could defeat him in the future! Thus rendering him invincible!” she smacked her fist on her other hand in excitement.

She went on as Draco watched, quietly flabbergasted, “chronologically, it makes sense too - the invention of Avada Kedavra has always been estimated to have occurred in the early Middle Ages by dark wizards. And well, a wizard that boasts of having snatched the wand from Death itself was bound to have acquired a reputation for being a dark wizard!”

Draco was getting dizzy just by following her incessant pacing while trying to assimilate her rambled reasoning. She stopped and turned to the table.

“This is it, Malfoy. The creation of Avada Kedavra,” she concluded with fervour.

“Calm down, Granger. You have a theory based on a children’s bedtime story, this is hardly a historical discovery."

“It’s more than just a theory, Malfoy, think about it,” she returned to her pacing. "It could’ve been yet another reason why Voldemort was so obsessed with the wand! We know Rookwood was continuing his research on Voldemort’s orders, maybe he told Voldemort he would be able to develop the curse, but the Elder Wand was essential for its inception. It was the wand that gave birth to the Killing Curse, it had the necessary power to channel something as unstable as a fatal, torturing, exploding new curse!”

She turned swiftly around and deftly took a seat in the chair in front of him.

“Malfoy, I need you to focus,” she said gravely. He recoiled slightly and moved back defensively on the chair with a quizzical look.

She continued, “there was a total of…” she paused for a few moments and closed her eyes, her hands intertwined in front of her as in a silent prayer, “eight or nine days between the moment Voldemort took the Elder Wand and the the Battle of Hogwarts,” she said looking back up at him. “You were home for at least part of that time, do you remember at any point, Voldemort and Rookwood together?” she asked fervently. Her eyes were darting to his as she waited for a response.

“You do know I didn’t exactly win Death-Eater-of-the-Year, right? I wasn’t privy to his strategic meetings,” he said irritably. This inquisition was beginning to irk him.

“Ok, but think, Malfoy. You might’ve seen or heard something, anything,” she pushed.

“Enough Granger, I didn’t see anything!” he retorted as he stood, barely registering that his chair had actually turned over behind him.

“But,"

“I said enough!”

“I’m not asking you to do anything but think and try to remember,”

“If you had my memories, Granger, you would know that’s asking too much already! Also I don’t know how this makes any difference anyway!” he bellowed.

She stood up and also began shouting, “it makes every difference in the world! If we know with certainty the Elder Wand created the curse, there’s loads of implications, especially if we have to devise a mechanism to stop this! Please, Malfoy just try,"

“Granger! No!” he bellowed.

“Why are you being such a prat, can’t you see this is important?!” she shouted.

“I can see you’re deluding yourself with a barely strung together theory and placing me in the interrogation chair! I’m not going to subject myself to this!" he shouted back.

“Malfoy! You’ve got to,"

“I don’t _got to_  anything! After the Tower, Voldemort only wanted me around if he needed an audience for taunting his victims, or when he was bored and wanted to practice his Cruciatus skills on someone!” he yelled, immediately regretting having revealed so much.

They both went silent, breathing heavily from their shouting match. This time it was Draco who turned and left the room.

 

  


Hermione had paced the room for about thirty minutes, aggravated by the humid warmth, waiting for him to come back. Then she had gone to the cafeteria, from where he was also absent. She bought a sandwich and some pumpkin juice and went back to their room. She picked at her food, glancing at the door every other minute. Pushing aside the remains of her lunch, she conceded that he might not return anytime soon.

God, he was infuriating! She knew she had come close to something important, she knew with every fibre of her being. The creation of the curse was absolutely essential to their mission. Why was he being so stubborn about this? She hadn’t asked much. She admitted, maybe, she could’ve been less, intense, about the way she approached him.

But she couldn’t stop herself. It had been so long since she had felt this way. The thrill of logic coming together like a weaving thread, the tapestry of the discovery being created right in front of her. It had coursed through her veins like electricity. Hermione had completely forgot what that had felt like.

There was no point to sit and wait for him to come back. So with a defeated sigh, she returned to her work. She went to the crate that held Rookwood’s research and decided she would spend some time organising the scrolls by theme. An hour later she had given up trying to separate the scrolls, as some addressed different issues within the same text. However, she had come up with broad themes that would help organise her mind. Now all she was missing was somewhere to put all of this down.

She walked to side of the sofa at the back of their room and pushed it towards the left side of the wall. She then left the room and made her way to the receptionist's desk.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Stainthorpe?” Hermione requested politely. The old spectacled lady looked up from the filing system she was bent over.

“Yes, how may I help?” she asked.

“Could you please ask someone from magical maintenance to come down?” she requested.

“Sure,” Mrs. Stainthorpe said, giving her a practiced, phoney smile.

“Thanks.” Hermione smiled back, hoping hers didn’t look as fake as hers.

She observed as she wrote a message in a pink coloured slip. She then tapped it with her wand and it immediately disappeared.  

Hermione waited at the reception for around ten minutes before a man with mousy brown hair and a round face appeared through the main entrance of the Comittees' Office.

“Oh, hello William, how are you?” she asked, recognising the magical maintenance worker.

“Mrs. Granger! What can I do to help?” he asked, smiling broadly.

“Would it be possible to get a large writing board? And some marker quills, please?”

“Sure, no problem, I’ll bring it down.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, and do you know what’s happening with the temperature in the building today? It’s awfully warm,” she added as nicely as possible.

She saw Mrs. Stainthorpe giving her a sideways glare at her understatement.

“Ah, yes, well we were caught by surprise by the sudden peak in the weather outside, it’s taken a while to adjust the internal temperatures. It should be better soon!” he said cheerfully.

William returned with the levitated white board behind him not long after their conversation. Hermione denied his offer for taking it all the way to the ‘office’, and levitated it herself, placing it by the empty corner she had freed near the back window.

She then proceeded to write the following headers across the centre of the board: Death; Pain; Delayed Continuum; Dissipation. These were the main elements Rookwood was studying order to create the charm. She began adding bullet points beneath the themes. Under death she wrote creation: 1214 - EW and added (?) for Malfoy’s sake. She then added some of the occurrences she had found on the dates Rookwood had highlighted. Under pain she wrote nociception but refrained from writing anything else down; he could do that when he decided to end his strop.

The remaining two themes explored the two main criteria necessary for the charm to work. The Delay Continuum was the necessary time that elapsed from the moment the curse was cast and the pain element succeeded, to the culmination in death. This required calculations that would provide enough stability for the curse to sustain itself; she assumed the scrolls filled with arithmancy charts and diagrams pertained to this theme. Finally, there was the dissipation element, which projected the curse outwards, allowing it to claim more than one victim at once. She wrote stability on the top right corner of the board and underlined it, certain it was a challenge Rookwood would have to have overcome to make the curse work.

She took a few steps back and observed the board. Satisfied with her progress, she returned to the desk and began working on the arithmancy charts. Malfoy did not return that day.

It was around seven in the evening when she opened the door to her flat to find it empty again. She showered immediately - even though the temperature had dropped with nightfall, she was glad to finally be out of those clothes. Feeling refreshed, she made herself a cup of tea and stretched on her sofa with her copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard, determined to try and find something in Dumbledore’s annotations. She must have gotten a little too comfortable because she awoke with a start when the front door opened.

Ron walked through the door as she sat up. His eyes fell on hers and they held each others’ gaze.

“Hi,” she said in a low voice.

He didn’t respond. His face was ashen, his eyes red from drink or lack of sleep, or both, she deduced. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall, it was past one in the morning. He walked in and sat in the armchair across from her, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands in front of him.

“I feel like we should talk,” she tried.

“About?” he rasped, his voice hoarse. Definitely drinking.

“Where have you been?” she asked.

“Out. Where have you been?” he retorted, his voice devoid of emotion.

“At Harry’s, then I was here last night.” she replied.

Silence filled the space between them.

“George came by, looking for you,” she continued. “I thought you would have been with him.”

“I was.”

“Not last night-”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I care.”

More silence.

“Gawain Robards is dead,” she said.

“I know, had to read it in the fucking Prophet.”

“I meant to tell you on Monday, but… I didn’t get to it.”

Silence. Her heart sank a bit, only realising now she had been expecting an apology. Any show of emotion would have been better than silence.

“His funeral is tomorrow, it’s a closed service, to which you’re invited,” she said, her voice colder.

“I’m not going.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I?”

“Because he meant something to us. He trained us, you worked for him,” she said harshly.

“I’m not going,” he replied calmly.

“Ron… we have to go.”

“We don’t have to do anything,” he retorted angrily. “Why do you want me to go?”

“Because it’s important. And it will be good for you, to see people,"

“No, you want for people to see me, to pretend everything is ok.”

“No, Ron, there’s no pretending everything is ok!” Her voice began to crack. “Everything is a mess! I don’t know how to get us out of it, but I do know that hiding in this house and drinking your way through life isn’t going to solve anything!”

“Solve? Do you have a time-turner handy, Hermione?” he asked in angry sarcasm. “Can you go back in time and stop Fred from dying? Can you go back and make sure Potter protected Ginny?! No, right? So there’s no way to solve anything!”

She took a second to take in his implication, staring incredulously at his face.

“Ron, you can’t be serious! You think Harry,"

“Oh I am very serious! If he had done his job and protected his wife like he should have, Ginny might have still been around to see her son grow up!” he barked.

Hermione’s insides were in disarray. Ron was blaming Harry for Ginny’s death. The injustice of it stung through her like poison spreading through her, shutting down her organs.

“What about me, Ron?” she asked.

“You don’t need protection,” he dismissed.

She hadn’t meant her accusation that way, but it didn’t stop her from saying, “maybe from you I do.”

His eyes were full of emotion. Unfortunately, it was neither regret or love that filled them.

Hermione was up for most of the night thinking about what he had said. His anger towards Harry had reminded her of their Horcrux hunting days. She could see a glimpse of the way he was now in the moments back when he had the locket around his neck. The anger, the spitefulness, the aggression, it had all been there before. Now, it was as if Ron had given into the Horcrux completely.


	10. Rain Washed

It was raining heavily. The thick drops blasted the top of his umbrella ferociously, their attack loud on his ears. He cast a second _Impervious_ charm on his shoes and robes as he trudged through the sodden grass. The cemetery was located at the outskirts of Appleby, nestled by a small, forest-covered hill; an uncommon sight in the flat Lincolnshire landscape. The trees were a myriad of shades of yellows, oranges, reds and browns, and their fallen leaves painted the lush green grass. He walked calmly around the tombstones, enjoying this rare moment of peace.

Draco was comfortable in cemeteries. It was an unusual feeling, he was aware of that. As a child, he had run to the Malfoy Cemetery to avoid his father’s punishments. The dead didn’t scare him, they were resting, at peace. Their serenity brought him protection from Lucius’ wrath. He would sit for hours in the woods behind the Manor, playing on the grass amongst the grand tombstones and thinking about the lives that used to be.

He could see ahead a small group of people clad in black, shielding themselves from the storm under their umbrellas, and made his way to them. He was grateful for the rain - it meant he would be spared uncomfortable small talk. As he arrived he saw a series of familiar sombre faces, including the grieving widow and three young children. Potter was standing next to her; he nodded briefly as he saw Draco arrive. He remained at the back, not wanting to draw any attention to himself. Ahead of him, standing by herself, one arm hugging her midriff and the other supporting a small black umbrella, was Granger. He scanned the small crowd but saw no tinge of red hair amongst the black and grey.

The ceremony didn’t last long. A few words were spoken, but they struggled to make their way through the sheet of water that fell from the skies. At one point he saw Granger’s head tilted to her left and her chin attempting to meet her shoulder. But he never saw her eyes, a curtain of curls protecting her face.

The casket descended into the ground after each of the young children threw an individual autumn leaf over it. The guests made their way to the small family to say words of comfort and condolence that Draco knew nothing of. He remained at the back, watching as the crowd scattered.

While most people were making their way back to the town centre, he saw as Granger slowly walked in the other direction. He observed, curiosity getting the best of him, as she made her way up the hill and into the trees. He glanced around and saw Potter moving slowly with the Robards family towards the small church that guarded the entrance to the cemetery. Granger had all but disappeared into the woods and he was left alone by the flower covered tomb. On the grey stone Draco read the words:

_Gawain Robards 12-07-1957 - 23-10-2003 ‘He died as he lived: fighting for those he loved’._

His feet moved without him making a conscious decision to do so, making their way up the sodden dirt path Granger had gone. He ascended rapidly, his body appreciating the strain in his muscles, muting his mind from the questions he had no answer to. As the cover of the trees reduced the amount of rain reaching him, he closed his umbrella, looking for a sign of her.

As he reached the top of the hill, he stopped, mesmerised by the view provided within the trunks. Ahead of him the horizon stretched endlessly, patched with fields of green and brown, the grey backdrop veiling the skies.

He saw her then, sitting with her back against a tree looking at the landscape beyond, her hair black from the rain water. She had her knees up, her arms resting on top of them, covered in the black robes where he knew her bruises were hidden.

He moved slowly now, unable to run from the question of why he had followed her. When he was a few steps behind her, she turned her head and saw him. He could see the surprise in her brown eyes and the wet path that streaked her cheeks which he doubted were caused by the weather. She turned back to the view as he stopped.

“I just needed to… get away for a minute,” she said, feeling the need to explain.

Draco remained silent, letting the cold drops of rain fall on him, staring at her as she stared at the view. The sound of the rain spattered onto the dry leaves around them.

“When you’re in a war, no one talks about the aftermath,” she spoke slowly. “You’re fighting every second that passes to reach this objective… you’re running uphill towards that light at the end of the tunnel… and then sometimes death is so near and you’re so sure this is it, you will never see the light. And then you fight and survive, defying gravity and moving ever closer to that finish line. Fight and survive, survive and fight, so you can get to the end.”

Draco stood frozen as her words washed over him. When she continued, he could feel the sorrow seeping through.

“Then, against all odds, you survive. You reach the other side. But no one ever told you what’s beyond that finish line. Weren’t things supposed to be ok, now? Wasn’t this why we were fighting all along, to get here? You look back, trying to remember when they told you that, searching for when they gave you that guarantee that there was a reason why you had to get here, and you can’t find it.”

She wiped her face and continued, “because no one tells you about the aftermath, and just how much of the war never really ends."

He swallowed hard. He had never felt empathy for anyone, at least not consciously. He felt unnerved at the foreign feeling, because in that moment, he understood her completely.

“They don’t tell you because who would fight if they knew,” he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. “The aftermath is a shadow. This time there’s no light ahead to guide you. You stumble and fall because you can’t see where you’re going. You find the light in yourself so you can keep moving.”

She turned to him, her eyes studying him as if she had never seen him before. He felt a subtle spark tingling through his body as he held her gaze.

“Have you found it, Draco?"

He felt a peculiar feeling in his chest at her use of his name. Her eyes rooted him to the ground as the rain washed away so much that existed between them. For this one inconceivable moment, he knew that their chaotic existence, their past, their hatred, their struggle, no matter how different, was the same.

“We should go back,” he said, transforming that one tangible moment of connection into impalpable fog. He turned and began making his way down the hill, his heart beating slightly too fast for the descent. He didn’t turn back to see if she was following, but he could hear the ground crunching intermittently behind him.

 

  


Hermione cast a drying spell on herself as they entered the small church where a few of the guests still lingered. She saw as Harry turned to watch her walking in with Malfoy and another wave of angst threatened to overcome her. She swallowed hard, willing herself to fight and hide the truth that his best friend blamed him for his sister’s death. She noticed Malfoy distancing himself from her as they walked up the church benches. After saying her goodbyes to the Robards’ family she apparated to the Ministry.

As she walked into their room, the first thing she noticed was that the writing board she had added to the decorations was significantly different from when she had left it the previous evening. His aristocratic script was all over the board where he had included notes. Hermione inched closer and sat at the edge of the table as she studied the additions. The area that seemed to lack the most content was  under the header she had named delay continuum.

She heard a noise behind her as the door creaked open but she didn’t turn to him, her mind intent on incorporating all the content he had added.

“I think we should go over the interrogation plan,” he said to her back.

“Yes, I agree,” she said, turning to him at last.

“We do Yaxley first, I’m certain he will be crawling up the walls by now,” he said, arranging the notes on his side of the desk. She noticed he was avoiding her eyes.

“Okay,” she agreed.

“We know Dolohov was leading this, so our main advantage is to make Yaxley believe Dolohov turned on him.”

“Won’t he be expecting that?” she asked.

“Yes, which is why we have to make him believe he actually did.”

“And how do we propose we do that?” she asked, noting the slight edge to her tone. She could see where this was going.

“We’ll have to show we have information he thinks only they did,” he said as he glanced at the board.

Hermione felt uneasy. She didn’t necessary like this idea and she was sure it was showing on her face.

“I’m prepared to argue with you on this, Granger, but it would be much easier if you just trusted me,” he said.

She didn’t know if was because of that surreal moment of genuine honesty they had shared that morning, or simply because she felt she had no more fight left in her. But to her surprise, she found that she did.

By the end of the afternoon they had a plan set out. The rain had battered on against the window as they discussed just how much they would reveal, which elements, how they would interact, what kinds of threats and concessions they could offer. She found her Auror training and her experience within the legal system gave her a profoundly stable ground to stand on as they worked. She had been able to provide insight on how they could use the laws to their favour and apply it to the interrogation techniques that she had also been trained on. He had returned to his detached professional stance, dressing sentences with impatience and scowls whenever she contradicted or disagreed.

She observed him as he analysed the notes she had made, his quill angrily scratching out here and there. His nose was scrunched, as if something in the room smelled bad, and his brows were creased. She thought about that morning, seeing him standing in the rain in a background of trees and leaves. There had been no Malfoy sneer, no spiteful distaste, no hatred. A version of him she didn’t know. Maybe that’s why she had called him by his first name.

He noticed her staring and she quickly removed her eyes from his face.

They had agreed to come in the next day, even though it was Saturday, to conduct the interrogations. That way, they would still be technically working on Shacklebolt’s deadline of ‘end of the week’.

She watched as Malfoy packed his things while she retrieved the arithmancy charts she had been working on; she had no desire to go home. She looked at him as he stopped on his way out, their eyes met for a brief second, before he moved through the door without a word.

It wasn’t until late that night that she noticed the book she had given him the previous day on wizard genetics was gone.

 

  


Draco brought a spoon of pumpkin soup to his mouth, relishing in the comfort and warmth it provided. He glanced up at her for what seemed like the millionth time in the last half hour. His mother broke into a brilliant, warm smile.

“Honestly Draco, it’s very endearing to see your worry, but I promise you I’m fine,” she said.

Narcissa was sat across from him at the table in their dining room. She wore a thick cream cashmere sweater and a delicate scarf around her neck. She was still pallid, visibly weak and frail, but he could not deny the change to her complexion. His heart swelled with hope, and he hated himself for it, because he could not allow himself to hope. The fall would be that much steeper once it, inevitably, came.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, mother,” he said.

“Me too, it feels so nice to be out of that dreaded room,” she said.

She had insisted on having dinner in the dining room rather than on a tray on her bed and Draco, unable to deny her pleading eyes, had acquiesced.

“If the weather allows, I thought I might take a turn around the gardens tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me?” she asked.

“I would love to mother, but unfortunately I have to work tomorrow.”

Narcissa attempted to veil her disappointment in an understanding smile, which resulted in a poorly disguised grimace.

"If I’m not back by the afternoon, we can go on Sunday. We can ask Thea to set brunch out in the patio,” he suggested gently.

He was genuinely happy she was feeling better, but this new dynamic provided another conundrum. Since Narcissa had been restricted to her bed, Draco had placed wards around her quarters to prevent Lucius from entering. She had deemed them unnecessary, but Draco’s resolve had been unwavering.

Now that she seemed to be regaining some of her strength, he did not know how he could prevent Lucius from seeing her. He usually remained in the East Wing of the Manor, where his study was located and Draco had set up one of the rooms for his use. But there was no way of controlling his every move.

Lucius had never directed his aggression towards her, at least not physically. Draco would never forget the shouted arguments from his childhood, some which had also caused him to run to his cemetery safe-haven. Narcissa had always stood her ground, argued back, refusing to be mistreated. Draco admired her for it. But Lucius had a way with words, eventually they would always break her and reduce her to tears.

It was a trait he had inherited from his father; both Lucius and Draco knew how to use words to put someone down.

When they finished their soup, Thea, their young house-elf, appeared to remove their plates.

“Thank you, Thea,” Narcissa said.

It had always been one of the contrasting differences in his parent’s education: the Blacks treated their house-elves with respect, the Malfoys did not.

“Thank you Mistress. Thea is happy to see Mistress is feeling better,” she said in her high pitched voice.

Draco liked her, she was young and resourceful, being the only house-elf left at the Manor. Her mother, an ageing elf that had served the Manor since his grandmother had married his grandfather, had been murdered by the Dark Lord when he had qualified her work as mediocre.

Murdered was a gross understatement; she had been fed to that wretched snake after Voldemort had ordered an unsuspecting Draco to call for her. He had made him stay and watch. The memory still haunted his nightmares. It had been the first time he had felt truly guilty for something he had done.

He watched as the elf brought them a plate of roast partridge and chestnut puree, adjusting his mother’s napkin on her lap. Thea was completely devoted to Narcissa. He appreciated her all the more for it.

“So, tell me about work. How is the new mission going?” she asked, her voice just betraying the weakness behind it.

“It’s progressing well,” he indulged his mother, “there’s still a lot to do, but it seems we’re on the right path.”

The truth was he had no idea if they were on the right path. Granger was a mystery to him, an aggravating, self-righteous, conflicting, disconnected mystery. Their task was daunting and overwhelming and every progress they had made seemed intermittent.

“Are the other wizards working on the project efficient?” she asked, making conversation.

“Actually, it’s only one, and it’s a witch,” he replied, eating another piece of partridge.

“Oh,” she said casually.

Draco lifted his eyes, giving her a warning stare. He knew she worried about his perpetual bachelor state, having been the instigator of a series of failed dates and short-lived relationships Draco had with eligible young witches of the pure-blood high society.

“And is she effective?” she continued on, failing terribly at hiding her curiosity.

“You know her, actually,” he said, deciding that revealing who she was would get her off his case.

“Really? Who is she?” she asked with a smile, surely hoping to hear a surname she approved of.

"Hermione Granger,” he supplied, taking a sip of his wine.

Narcissa was taken aback, not even bothering to hide her surprise. Draco appraised his mother as she took this in. He watched her expression change from surprise to something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. She was studying him, eyes slightly narrowed and the hint of a smile ghosting her lips.

“I’m proud of you, Draco,” she said with candour. “A few years ago that name would have been reason enough for you to not have accepted this mission."

It was Draco’s turn to be taken completely by surprise. He refrained from mentioning how he almost did say no for that exact reason. They fell silent and returned to their meals.

“I often think about that girl,” Narcissa said, breaking the silence. “About that night, here in the Manor, with Bella…"

A flash of Granger writhing on the floor, her screams piercing his ear drums, stained his vision.

“She reminds me of Andromeda,” she continued, and Draco thought of his estranged aunt that had married the muggle-born. “She had that same brazen courage when we were young. I expect she does, still."

They finished the rest of their meal in silence, both deep in thought. Draco walked his mother back to her room, letting her determine the slow pace. After bidding her goodnight, he walked back to his room.

It had been the first time he remembered his mother mentioning Andromeda. He knew she had lost both her husband and her daughter in the War and was left taking care of the orphaned child. The words on Robards tomb came to him then, died as he lived,fighting for those he loved. He then thought about what his mother had said, that Granger reminded her of his aunt. He thought again of her screams as Bellatrix tortured her again and again… as he relived the memory of that night in his head, an image of his old house-elf, Dobby, apparating away with Potter, Weasley and Granger, surfaced.

As he entered the room, an idea came to him and he called for Thea.

The elf appeared immediately with a loud crack, standing in front of his lit fireplace.

“Master called?” she asked dutifully.

Draco sat at the edge of his bed, staying eye level with the small creature. Her eyes widened at this sudden show of humility, which admittedly, was unprecedented. Draco didn’t care though, he needed her to grasp the importance of what he was about to tell her.

“Thea, I need you to listen very carefully. I want you to pay extra attention to my mother now she is feeling well enough to walk around the house. Keep an eye on her and come to her if you think she looks too weak or indisposed,” he said gravely.

“Yes, Master Draco, Thea will take care of Mistress,” she said.

“There’s also one more thing, and this is very important. If my father shows any signs of aggression, if he threatens her or raises his voice to her, if he so much as looks at her the wrong way, I want you to apparate her back into her quarters where he won’t be able to get in,”

Her eyes widened in horror. She had good reason to fear Lucius, Draco was glad she knew that.

“You have my full permission to do that, Thea. If it does come to this, promise me you will take her out of harms way and come find me immediately,” he almost begged her.

“Y-yes Master, Thea promises,” she said in a small voice.


	11. A Storm of Stones and Dust

They each stood at one end of the charmed, one-way viewing wall that allowed them to look inside the interrogation room while the internal side maintained the appearance of solid concrete. It was eight fifty in the morning, Yaxley had been brought in five minutes ago and he was already pacing the room; his shackled hands trailing the wall as he walked round and round the small perimeter. To her right, Malfoy was tapping his foot on the floor incessantly while sipping his coffee. His tension was emanating from him and leaving her even more on edge. She knew how much hung on these interrogations - one wrong move and they could realise how little information they actually had.

“Right, remember our main objective is to understand how widespread the curse is, who knows about it or how to work it,"

“I know, Malfoy,” she said irritably. “I was in the room with you when we discussed all this.”

He scowled at her, but continued, “remember to let me lead with the questions, and the signal for you to leave,"

“Malfoy! I know what I have to do, ok?” she retorted angrily.

“I know you know, it’s whether you can that concerns me! We’ve got next to nothing and if they realise that,"

“Can you, for once in your life, not be such a self-centred, conceited prat and trust that someone else can do their job just as well as you?”

“Can you not be the insufferable, righteous, stuck up,"

“Malfoy!” she shouted and grunted in irritation.

“Do not fuck this up, Granger,” he warned.

They looked at each other, both clearly incensed. She huffed and led the way out of the door and into the room where Yaxley was. As soon as they entered, he stopped and turned to them with a malicious smile on his face.

“If it isn’t Potter’s filthy little mudblood and the Malfoy spawn,” he said sardonically.

“Have a seat, Yaxley,” Malfoy ordered.

He was still smiling as he sat. Hermione stood at the back as they had planned, leaning against the wall and facing Yaxley, meeting his gaze with unwavering eyes. Malfoy took the seat in front of Yaxley.

“And here was I, thinking I was a lowly Death Eater prisoner, forgotten in these dreaded cells, and they send me Potter’s right hand and the Wizarding World’s biggest blood traitor!” Yaxley continued in his wicked satirical tone, “my oh my, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m sorry we couldn’t have this little chat before, we’ve been, busy, you see,” Malfoy said. “Antonin has been quite the chatterbox this last week.”

“Ha!” Yaxley exclaimed. “I didn’t know you had a sense of humour, Draco.”

“I know, I was surprised too,” Malfoy continued, unperturbed. “But that’s none of your business anyway. You’re our guest of honour today,” and with that, Malfoy smiled back.

Yaxley’s smile did not fade, but his eyes gave his anxiety away as he darted to Hermione and back to Malfoy.

“So, let’s get straight to it, shall we. You’re here on the account of participating in illicit Death Eater activity, including illegal use of Unforgivable Curses, resulting in torture and murder of over sixteen muggles,"

“Vermin,” he added, as if correcting Malfoy.

“in the past eighteen months,” finished Malfoy.

“We also have a list of your War Crimes, ranging from 1996 to 1998, but we’ll leave that for your trial, lest we get bored with its length,” added Hermione.

Yaxley sneered at her.

Good.

“Dolohov already placed you in the scene of all of the attacks. As you know, there’s no way out of this, Yaxley. You’re looking at a lifetime in Azkaban,” Malfoy said, casually.

“I hear the place is not so bad, now its Dementor-free,” he said, shrugging his shoulder.

“Oh yes, we’ve gotten rid of those horrible creatures,” Hermione said, pretending to shiver from disgust. “But haven’t you heard of the renovations we’ve done?” she asked with fake naivety as she walked to the table, placing both palms flat on the surface and sustaining herself on her arms.

He chanced a sideways glance at her.

“Well, we borrowed a few ideas from our muggle counterparts. You see, we don’t get involved in their wars, but they have some problems of their own, terrorist groups that make you Death Eaters look like angry kittens,” she said lightly as he rolled his eyes. "And when they’re caught, their government has some very interesting techniques to make sure their prisoners remain tame,” Hermione said as casually as she could.

“There’s solitary confinement, which is staying the rest of your life in a very small dark cell,” she stood and began pacing leisurely, ticking off her fingers, "electricity shocks, you know like lightning surges through your body, then there's the standing challenge, which forces prisoners to stand until, well, they go unconscious,"

“Granger, what was that one you were telling me, with the water?” he asked subtly, trying not to overplay it.

“Ah yes, waterboarding, that’s one of the most interesting ones. They place a cloth over your face and then constantly pour water over it. I’m told the feeling of drowning is one of the worst to endure - of course only a few survived to actually tell us this,” she continued as Yaxley stared at the wall. Malfoy’s eyes were boring into him.

“It's just as effective as the one the Japanese taught us, where they tie up the prisoner and place this small bamboo shoot just below them. You know bamboos? They’re muggle plants, but they’re as hard as wood and they grow so fast, it’s almost as if they’re magical. So over the next days they watch it grow through the prisoners body,” she finished, relieved she was able to maintain the mandatory lightness to her town.

“I know that’s all rubbish, mudblood, your honourable government would never allow any of this,” he spat, but Hermione was happy to see his humour gone.

“Have you met Shacklebolt? The Minister? You might remember him from the Battle of Hogwarts, duelling three at a time,” she finished seriously.

“Former Auror,” added Malfoy. “Made a living catching Death Eaters. He’s seen enough not to give a shit about what happens in Azkaban.”

Yaxley lifted his fingers and began inspecting his filthy nails, “I’m still not buying it, Draco, dear boy."

Hermione knew he was feigning, so she took advantage of it, going slightly off-script. “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe us, right Malfoy? Although considering the author of several of these new laws is the one telling you about them, I’d be a bit more inclined to listen.”

He took the bait and looked up as Hermione answered, “yours truly,” and smiled.

Malfoy caught on, “you might not think the Ministry would have the courage to do it, but you know she has reason enough,” he jerked his head sideways, indicating her. “You’re right, Granger, let’s not ruin the surprise for him.”

Yaxley’s silence was enough encouragement for them to keep going.

“Now you have a faint, even though incredulous, idea of what is expecting you at Azkaban, let’s talk about this curse.”

At this, Yaxley’s eyes shot up at him and he immediately tried to feign boredom again. Hermione leant back against the wall and continued to observe their prisoner.

“Oh you thought we didn’t know? You’re very sceptical today, Corban, you don’t believe Granger when she tells you about the laws she’s writing, you don’t believe me when I tell you Antonin Dolohov spilled the beans…” he trailed off.

Yaxley’s eyes were fixed on the table, but his entire stance was rigid. Hermione remained frozen where she was, refraining from even breathing too hard. They were reaching their critical point and it was all down to Malfoy’s poker abilities.

“He told us everything. We know about Rookwood’s mission, his years of research, about the development of the curse, of the failed and successful tests, of the problems with stability…"

Hermione eyes were taking in every infinitesimal reaction in Yaxley’s body language: his contracted jaw, his unwavering stare at the table, his clenched fingers, she could even see the hairs on this arm standing on end. She imagined his brain working, trying to decide what to do. Nothing in his stance told her they had missed a step with how much they chose to divulge.

She saw from the corner of her eye as Malfoy took a sip of the disposable coffee cup he had brought in with him. The pre-arranged signal.

She detached herself from the wall and deliberately leant over Malfoy’s ear, careful not to touch him, but covering her mouth with her own hand, shielding Yaxley’s view. She didn’t actually say anything, but moved her mouth to create the necessary muscle movements show in her jaw. She saw as Yaxley's eyes lifted to meet her own. Malfoy nodded, as agreed, and she made her way out of the room and into the adjacent one so she could keep viewing.

She noticed the goosebumps on her own arms, as her heart beat forcefully against her ribcage.

She stood in front of the wall and observed Malfoy as he stared down Yaxley. Slowly, deliberately, he pushed himself out of the chair and removed his wand from his pocket.

“Granger had to step outside for a minute, but I think her absence has come at an opportune moment.”

He waited until he had Yaxley’s attention and casually cast a charm at the one-way viewing wall. Hermione knew it was simply a warming charm, but it created a light shimmering effect when it hit its target, which was exactly what they wanted.

“That’s a one-way viewing wall, well it was, I’ve just disabled the charm,” he mentioned as if in passing. He turned to Yaxley and appraised him with curiosity.

“You didn’t wonder why we’re questioning you on a Saturday?” he asked, with genuine interest in his voice.

Yaxley didn’t reply, but his anger was starting to show.

“That was my suggestion. Convinced Granger it would be better to do this without the usual mass of Ministry hags standing audience on the other side.” He began to slowly move towards the prisoner. “She agreed easily enough.”

"She’s changed you know,” he added conversationally as he made his way round the desk.

Hermione shifted slightly, this wasn’t on the script. Malfoy arrived in front of Yaxley and in one swift move, restricted his shackled arms against the table with his left hand and held his wand to his throat with his right.

Yaxley was now breathing rapidly through his nose. Hermione placed her hand on the door as planned, ready to walk back in if Yaxley didn’t give in.

“She’s not a naive little mudblood anymore, she’s a spiteful mudblood, who was happy to look the other way if I needed to _loosen your tongue_ ,” Malfoy rasped.

Hermione’s vision went black with rage and a her throat constricted with hurt. She didn’t know if he improvised or if he planned to say it all along, and she didn’t know if he had meant it or not. It hurt all the same.

Yaxley was still breathing hard as his eyes tried to find Malfoy's wand hand.

“The way I see it, Corban, you have three choices. Don’t talk, let me hurt you anyways, and then see exactly how welcoming Azkaban is without Dementors; or you let me torture you, I’ll even throw in a laugh or two like you did back when the Dark Lord threw me around like a ragdoll, and then you talk; or you take the easy way out, like your mate Antonin did, and tell me every fucking thing I want to know and I’ll see what I can do about those guards in Azkaban,” he finished.

Hermione was startled at the anger in his voice. Her heart kept hammering against her chest as she waited for Yaxley to fall for their bluff.

He gave three harsh breaths, before he grunted, “all right!”

Hermione hadn’t realised she had been holding her breath until she released it.

“Good little Death Eater,” Malfoy sneered. He released his hold on Yaxley, moving backwards and lazily taking his seat again. He picked up his coffee cup, leant back and took a sip.

Hermione counted to five and then made her way back in the room.

“Good timing, Granger, Yaxley here was just about to start telling me some stories,” Malfoy said, his voice bordering on cheerful. “Let’s just hope they match with Dolohov's, or else the deal is off, for both of them,” he threatened.

She took the seat next to him and rested her arms on the table. She mustered all her strength to keep any emotion from her face. Their elaborate strategy of bad-cop-bad-cop, bluff of torture threats and prisoners dilemma seemed to be working, but she had to remind herself they still hadn’t gotten any information out of him.

“When did the Rookwood tell you about the curse he was developing for the Dark Lord?” Malfoy asked.

Yaxley’s body language had changed completely, his shoulders were slumped and his head was hanging from his neck in defeat. His eyes darted to both of them, appraising their expressions, before conceding in a low voice, “he told Antonin first, after Potter broke into Gringott’s.”

Malfoy lifted his eyebrows, so as to say ‘and?’, so Yaxley elaborated.

“Told him to pick two he trusted and he would show him how to use the curse, and give him what he needed to continue developing it in case he wouldn’t be around anymore."

“I still can’t believe Dolohov picked you and Rowle,” Malfoy leered.

Yaxley shot him a loathful glare and Hermione had to bite her cheek not turn her face at him. After Yaxley spoke next however, she understood what Malfoy’s intent had been. He was indicating that Yaxley was corroborating Dolohov’s story, encouraging him to keep talking while goading him to prove himself and reveal more.

“He chose right, because we managed to do it, didn’t we? We managed to stabilise the delay enough to add the torturing element from crucio,” he retorted.

“Yes, you did, congratulations, you’re not as much of an idiot as we all thought you were. But let’s go back a little bit, so Rookwood tells you three about the curse and how to use it and then you all head off to the Battle of Hogwarts. What next?”

Yaxley didn’t reply.

“We know you went into hiding. Where did you go?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know where the others went, I expect Antonin went back to Russia. I was in Skye.” he admitted, a proud undertone to his voice.

“The Ministry searched your home in the Isle of Skye after the end of the Second War,” Hermione commented, looking up to see Yaxley smiling.

“It’s easier to hide when you know a place like the back of your hand, isn’t it?” he taunted.

“Keep going, Yaxley, I don’t have all day,” Malfoy spat.

Yaxley shot him an angry look before continuing, “we had agreed to meet two years later, if we got away. So we did, Dolohov had the papers and we set to work on the curse,” he finished.

“Where?” Malfoy asked.

“We met in Edinburgh then made our way North,” he said.

“Tell me about the attacks,” Malfoy asked brusquely.

“What about them?” Yaxley asked in a bored voice.

“Don’t test my patience, Yaxley, I promise you it will not go well for you,” Draco replied in exasperation.

“First time, we tried the curse as it was when Rookwood passed it on to us, and it was just as he had said, there was the explosion and they died,”

Suddenly Hermione’s vision was overtaken by a memory so powerful she had to muster physical strength to prevent her eyes from forcing shut. The air had exploded around them, she was flying backwards through the storm of stones and dust. She hit her head on the ground but Harry had grabbed her hand. Then she saw Ron kneeling beside Fred’s lifeless body and Percy running in blind rage after Rookwood...

She jumped up from the chair, not bothering to create an excuse, and ran out of the room, managing to just close the door behind her before she could no longer hold back the tears that had bubbled up like vomit. She staggered into the adjacent room as she began sobbing uncontrollably.

Fred. He had been the first victim of the atrocious curse. She groaned loudly, consumed in anger and grief, holding her stomach and bending over to try and keep her balance. She drew staggered breaths, trying to reign in her emotions. After a few seconds, she regained some control and attempted to bury the pain that had exploded inside of her like a black cloud.

She moved to the one-way wall. Malfoy had somehow managed to not let her abrupt exit interfere with his questioning. Still releasing erratic shuddering breaths, she returned her attention.

“So after the failed attack in Aberdeen, you managed to stabilise the curse,” Malfoy said.

Yaxley nodded slowly.

“And then there was the attack in Orkney,” Malfoy asked

“Orkney?” Yaxley shot up, his thick brows meeting in the middle as he frowned at Malfoy.

Malfoy’s face was blank, scrutinising Yaxley. She shifted, anxiety suddenly taking over again. Yaxley was staring at Malfoy with a quizzical look.

“Well done, Yaxley, you passed our trick question,” he said calmly. Cursing to herself, Hermione admired Malfoy’s quick thinking, but Yaxley didn’t look convinced.

Malfoy continued before he could think too much, “the stone building, near Inverness, where we caught you, whose was it?”

“No one’s. Abandoned,” he said carefully. His stance had become rigid again, and she knew they had lost their footing. Malfoy seemed to have reached the same conclusion.

“One last question, Yaxley,” he asked. “The incantation,” he requested sombrely.

Yaxley’s lips twitched upwards.

" _extimius adflictio_."


	12. Treading on Ice

Draco locked the door and stormed into the other room, finally letting his rage run free. She was leaning against the see through wall, turning to him as he entered the room. He threw the disposable coffee cup against the other corner of the room with all his strength; its contents exploding out of it and staining the walls. She flinched involuntarily. He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her through the corridor outside and away from the interrogation rooms, barely able to contain his anger.

“What the fuck was that!” he yelled, releasing her wrist and rounding on her.

She held her wrist where he had grabbed her, her eyes boring into his.

“I’m- I’m sorry,” she replied. Her voice was strained with and anger and something else he couldn’t place, but it didn’t affect him.

“I told you not to fuck it up! I warned you,"

“Fred. He killed Fred,” she began, her face scrunching and tears pouring from her eyes. She made a sound as if she was trying to swallow something painful, cleaning her face with the back of her hand.

“What?! Yaxley?!” he asked, fury still seething through him.

“No,” she sobbed. Her voice was a battlefield for anger and grief, barely coherent sentences formed between grunts and sobs.

“Rookwood. At Hogwarts. During the battle he- we we’re talking, Percy had joined the fight, Fr-Fred was laugh-laughing, joking, then there was an explosion, the air exploded, and Fred was dead, and Rookwood was there. It was Rookwood who killed him. He was testing the curse."

He vaguely recalled Fred being one of the Weasley twins. He had forgotten he had died.

“You should’ve controlled yourself! You almost gave everything away!” he said angrily.

“I had to leave, I didn’t know what else to do!” she retorted, her anger beginning to win over her grief. “I wasn’t about to start crying in front of him!” she yelled.

“You should’ve not cried at all! You almost compromised the interrogation!” he spat back, trying to control his anger.

“Well I’m sorry I’m not an cold, egotistic being, incapable of human emotion! Not all of us had the benefit of the Death Eater training, Malfoy!” she bellowed, her face suffused with anger.

It was like a cold slap to the face. The reminder that no matter how much of him he gave, he would always be the sixteen year old kid who got marked by Voldemort and made all the wrong choices in life.

At that moment, he loathed her.

“You think you’ve changed but I can see it in your eyes right now, Malfoy, just as clearly as I heard you in there,” she said, pointing back to where they had come from. "I’m always going to be nothing but a filthy little mudblood to you."

Without responding, he turned on his heel and stormed off in the other direction, blood boiling and skin tingling. He could hear the air making its way in and out loudly through his nose.

He found the two Magical Law Enforcement Officers on duty at the other side of the corridor. He informed them they were done with the interrogation and that the prisoner could be escorted back to the holding cells to await trial.

When he walked back, he did all he could to control his anger.

Granger was waiting for him, arms crossed, face streaked with red. Her chin was up but her eyes were weary. He walked right up to her face before coming to a halt; he was so close he could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks.

“I don’t give a shit what you think about me, Granger and even less what you think I think about you. You were unprofessional and you know it. If I hadn’t signed a fucking contract I would be out of here so fast it would blow that rat’s nest you call hair right out of your head, and you would have to deal with this shit alone,” he rasped through gritted teeth. “Now, we’ve got a fucking job to do and I’m not about to jeopardise it because of your incompetence. You have five minutes to get your shit together and be in that meeting room."

He walked past her, stomping through the offices he knew so well until he arrived at the meeting room.

Draco began pacing, concentrating on his breathing and bringing his focus back to the interrogation.

She walked in after three minutes and immediately took a seat at the large table, pulling the quill, ink and parchment that sat in the centre towards her. She looked calmer, she had pinned her hair back and the redness in her face had somewhat subsided.

“So Rookwood tells Dolohov about the curse after we broke into Gringotts. Why? What prompted him?” her voice was stable again, but cold and emotionless. She was back on professional mode, as if determined to prove she would not be incompetent.

It took Draco four heart beats, two deep breaths and a conscious decision to remain calm, before he spoke.

“Voldemort was beside himself with anger. He was murdering goblins, torturing Death Eaters, he was after blood,”

“It was when he figured out we were hunting Horcruxes. Rookwood witnesses all this and presumes, correctly, that Voldemort is unstable, probably on the verge of going all out after Harry,” she continued on a low tone, making notes as she spoke.

Draco tried to put himself in Rookwood’s shoes. He pictured him, pacing alone around the Manor, trying to set out a plan.

“He’s scared it’s going to come to a battle and he hasn’t finished working on the curse, he needs to guarantee his work won’t die with him. So he picks Dolohov, probably the most skilled fighter in the ranks, with a higher chance of survival than most of the others, to carry on the mission. Dolohov then picks his two best mates - because they’re the two he can trust, not necessarily because they’re particularly skilled,” Draco deduced rationally.

“Right, then Rookwood tells them about the research and gives them the documents. Copies, since we know he kept the originals with him,” Granger continued, her quill rushing across the parchment. A part of his mind noted her voice had become less rigid.

“At this point, the curse is incomplete. Rookwood still hasn’t managed to solve his stability issue."

“He goes into the Battle of Hogwarts and tests his curse,” she added, “claims his first victim.”

“Right, then Dolohov goes into hiding after Potter finishes the Dark Lord,” Draco continued, careful not to linger on the previous step of the story.

He went on, “two years later, they meet in Scotland and set to work on the curse. They make their first attack, testing out the curse as it was, then set out to attempt to solve the stability problem. There’s a span of five months between the first attack and the second attack, which failed. The explosion we know was caused by them because of the magical traces left behind at the scene. No victims.” He could hear the tip of her quill scratching the paper as he spoke.

He continued, his brain now on full-speed, “then there were two attacks in the previous month with the same factors involved: rural locations, an explosion, fatal victims. In Inverness, we had witnesses stating they heard screams as if people were in pain. So we know the curse had been stabilised. The previous had been in Orkney. Now either Yaxley was lying, which I don’t think he was-“

“Or someone else also knows about the curse,” Granger interrupted, finishing his thought for him.

“Which means Rookwood either told a second group of Death Eaters in case Dolohov didn’t make it, or he left instructions for someone to take up where he had left off,” he reasoned, but he wasn’t completely sure about the latter argument.

“Or,” continued Granger, “he told someone while he was in Azkaban, before he passed away."

That was plausible, thought Draco, picturing prisoners exchanging conversations in queues, during meals or other surreptitious times where the guards, who were not at all as vicious as they had recounted in their bluff to Yaxley, might have been distracted.

“Make a note for us to list all known Death Eaters who were arrested during his time in Azkaban,” he ordered, noting the murderous stare she was shooting him. “ _Please_ ” he added with contempt.

She did and he returned to his pacing, going over Yaxley’s words in his mind, trying to see if he had missed anything.

“The building in Scotland?” she asked.

“It was behind the clearing where they ambushed us,” he said, remembering the eerie mist and the ivy covered stone walls. “It was searched by the Magical Law Enforcement Squad, they didn’t find anything.”

“How did they know you were coming?” she asked, her voice about two decibels lower than her usual loudness.

“Magic sensory detection set in the perimeter of the building. We used silencing charms so we wouldn’t make noises on the dry leaves as we approached,” he said through greeted teeth. It had been an unnecessary risk.

“They were expecting you though, they knew there were witnesses from the attack,” she said, her eyes not meeting his.

Was she trying to comfort him? Not thirty minutes before she had been calling him a Death Eater.

His pacing had slowed, his thoughts back on the interview, he racked his brain for details.

“Malfoy?” she asked.

“What,” he said irritably.

“Extimius adflictio, my latin isn’t good enough…”

He stopped pacing and gave her a questioning look. That was a first, Granger admitting she wasn’t good enough at something. He rubbed his eyes with his hands as he tried to think of the best possible translation.

“Something along the lines of the last, or the ultimate pain, or terror,” he concluded.

“Sounds about right,” she said.

He almost chuckled, but caught himself just in time.

 

  


They waited for Dolohov in the interrogation room, sat side by side on the table. Her arm was inches from his and she thought she could feel warmth, though she was sure it was her brain playing tricks on her. Malfoy was nothing but cold - grey, stone, cold. Her emotions had been in disarray and she barely remembered their exchange, but the look of pure hatred he gave her had been unmistakeable. She had reached deep within her to find stocks of energy to be able to compress the emotions that had exploded out of her. Because on one account he was right, she would not be the reason this mission failed.

As soon as he entered the room Hermione could feel his eyes on the back of her head. The officer brought him in and escorted him to the chair in front of them. Hermione stared at the long, pale, twisted face to find Dolohov holding a sneer to her.

It was subtle, not outright mocking or overly sarcastic, like Yaxley’s had been. It was the smile of someone who already knew they had the winning hand before they even began the game. It unnerved her.

They heard the door close, but Dolohov’s stare never wavered from her face. She had to add the fact that his was the man that killed Ginny to the lump of compressed emotions somewhere deep in her gut. After a few seconds of silence, Malfoy began.

“Dolohov,"

“How’s the arm Draco?” he asked in a lazy drawl, turning his eyes to the man sat beside her. He had asked casually, as if asking about his day. His voice was calm and controlled.

Malfoy didn’t reply. Hermione saw from the corner of her eyes as he opened his mouth to speak, but Dolohov interrupted him again.

“You see, mine hasn’t burnt in years, but it itches like hell,” his slow drawl continued, as if they were old buddies talking about their battle scars. Which they were, she reminded herself. He stretched his shackled arms above his head and the sleeve from his Ministry-issued jumpsuit feel back a little. He brought his arms back down, the fading remains of the Dark Mark now in full display.

Malfoy was disconcerted, she could tell by the way his entire posture was still and rigid beside her.

“I like it though, the itch,” he said languidly, gazing at his outstretched arm on the table. "Reminds me of better days… still to come."

“Are you done, now?” Malfoy interjected, his voice slightly hoarse.

The sneer returned. Hermione’s heart beat was pulsing uncomfortably against the vein in her neck.

“You’re-”

“How long did it take you to break Yaxley?” he cut him off again, acting as if him and Malfoy were catching up over a pint. “Not this whole week I hope… or was that for my benefit?”

Hermione kept her eyes on him, her face cautiously stern, refusing to let him see her anxiety. But he had eyes only for Malfoy.

“You’re right, he did break in about five minutes. Good choices by the way, Rowle and Yaxley,” Malfoy said, attempting to bring back control to this side of the table. “First thing he did was give you up."

“I didn’t chose them because they were trustworthy, I chose them because they were expendable,” he replied calmly.

He replied, though, thought Hermione. Silently, she ushered Malfoy to keep going.

“Tell me, Dolohov, did Rookwood also tell you how expendable you were?” he asked.

Slowly and ghost-like, the smile crept back onto Dolohov’s lips.

“You know you weren’t the only ones he entrusted his research too, so just how expendable do you think you were?” Malfoy asked.

An internal sigh of relief threatened to escape her. Finally Malfoy seemed to be taking control.

"You were his insurance, his just in case,” he finished.

“How’s mummy doing, Draco?”

Hermione felt, more than saw, Malfoy twitch beside her. She casually glanced at him without moving her head. He sat frozen and pale, the muscles in his forearm were tensed, it’s strained edges defined like a carved marble statue.

Hermione’s insides began to panic. There was no way they could continue to follow their plan, Dolohov was not going to give them anything they needed to know. She needed to blindside him completely. She mentally revisited his file, going over of all the information the Ministry had on him. Then it hit her.

“How long has it been now since you’ve seen Annoushka?” Hermione stepped in. Dolohov tore his eyes away from Malfoy and turned to her. They were black, and boring holes in the back of her skull, but she focused on her attack.

“Did you see her when you went back after Voldemort fell? No, right? Why’s that?” she asked almost gently.

Dolohov made no reply. While she pretended to be waiting, her mind’s eye focused on the short, albeit detailed, paragraph they had on his sister.

“You couldn’t find her, could you? She wasn’t in your hometown in the Urals, was she?” Hermione kept going, encouraged by his silence and the non-resurgence of his smile.

"I bet from there you went to St. Petersburg,” she reasoned calmly. “Searched the apothecary she worked in, her last known place of work. But she was nowhere to be seen.”

She noticed Malfoy carefully observing her but she refused to let it interrupt her momentum.

“Now from there I don’t know if you went to Volgograd or Omsk, first,” she considered, tilting her head as if in contemplation. “Annoushka lived for two years in Volgograd during her Healer training. Maybe she was there visiting friends, perhaps? And who is it that lives in Omsk, your aunt? Cousin? I can never remember.”

They were all immobile, each waiting for the other to react.

“But you never found her, did you?”

Dolohov seemed on the verge of saying something, but decided against it in the end.

“Are you not wondering how I know all of this? And perhaps, that I might know what happened to her?” Hermione phrased this carefully, hoping it would leave him questioning enough.

“Annoushka is dead to me.”

Her heart sunk, another dead wall. But as Hermione studied him, there was something in his expression, a remnant of an emotion, that she couldn’t quite place. Malfoy, seemingly recovered from his attempt to impersonate a statue, apparently picked up on it too.

“You don’t look like you mean it, Antonin,” he teased.

He lifted his chin, looking down at both of them.

Malfoy picked up the files from the table where they sat and stood, making to leave, so Hermione followed his actions.

“You have forty-eight hours to tell us if you’ve changed your mind,” he said, and then he deliberately opened an unmarked folder, it’s back to Dolohov’s eyes. From inside he lifted a rectangular cutting, just enough so Dolohov could see it was a photograph, and said, “if I don’t hear from you until the end of the day Monday, I might go and pay a little visit to Annoushka myself.”

Then he threw Dolohov a deliberate, devious smirk.

Hermione watched as Dolohov's eyes darkened with suppressed rage.

Still smirking, Malfoy turned and left the room. Hermione was about to cross the threshold when she heard the Death Eater’s rasped call, “Granger.”

She paused by the door frame and cautiously turned to look back at him.

The sneering smile had returned.

“My regards to Potter and the kid."

The world was a blur of red. Her hand moved instinctively to her wand, but as her fingers clasped around the thin wood, she felt a tug on the fabric between her shoulder blades. She moved backwards involuntarily, the door in front of her shut and two pair of hands grabbed her shoulders and flipped her so she was pinned against the wall.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

His voice was a whisper with the intensity of a scream. His hands were firm, but not in the painful way she was used to being handled. Just firm, warm, and there. When her vision came back into focus, she saw grey eyes, surrounded by a face constricted with anger. But she knew just by looking into the grey that the anger was not his, but theirs.

Later, when she looked back and analysed this moment, she would think about how his hands were warm and how they kept her there, and how his eyes had told her, for the second time in two days, that she was not alone.


	13. A Break in the Clouds

“Let’s get this done quickly, Granger,” he said, handing her the files where their notes were.

They were back in their room and had returned to the positions they had taken after the first interrogation: Granger seated, armed with parchment and quill, Draco pacing. Except last time they had immediately begun to discuss their findings. This time, they both fell into silence.

Draco paced, back and forth, listening to the repetitive _thump thump thump thump_ of his own footsteps echoing off the walls.

“He was never going to give us anything. We had no leverage with him, so he turned the tables on us,” she concluded before they even began.

Draco pictured the taunting sneer and knew she was right. He stopped pacing and placed his palms down on the table, letting his head hang and his eyes close.

“Do you think he knows who the other Death Eaters are?” she asked.

Draco shrugged, “he might. I don’t think Yaxley did, judging by his reaction. But Dolohov might have known. Rookwood could’ve have told him, or told the others to find Dolohov."

His shoulders felt heavy, Dolohov’s knowing smile mocked him from behind his eye lids. Absolute fear grappled his heart as he heard his voice in his ears, ‘how’s mummy doing, Draco?’.

There was no possibility that he knew she had been injured, was there? He had done everything in his power to keep his family shielded from public speculation. Only a handful of people knew about Narcissa's condition and even less about Lucius’. There were two Healers who received hefty sums into their Gringott's accounts on a monthly basis to take care of all their medical needs. Draco would’ve known if one of them blabbed, the cursed non-disclosure contract he had made them sign made sure of that. Then there was Mrs. Parkinson and Mrs. Greengrass, her closest friends. They knew nothing of the truth, they had been fed a story that Narcissa had been diagnosed with a rare degenerative disease so they would be allowed to visit occasionally.

Neither the Greengrass nor the Parkinson families had been associated with Voldemort, which made any link to Dolohov, wanted Death Eater, tenuous at best. Which meant he had made the implication as a sexual threat. He shuddered involuntarily. He honestly did not know which of the possibilities he thought was worse.

He looked up and saw Granger observing him. He returned her stare, daring her to say anything. He was still waiting for the onslaught of accusations that would surely come for having done the exact same thing he had shouted at her for doing with Yaxley.

They would have been justified. Dolohov’s jab had shaken him completely.

But as he continued studying her, he noticed there was no aggression in her expression. She seemed to be letting him take his time. With immense effort, he swallowed his pride

“Annoushka was a good move,” he conceded.

She didn’t gloat, at least not as he had expected her to.

“When I moved to Magical Law Enforcement after my Auror training, I was given the task to update all known Death Eater files, captured and otherwise. I know his almost by heart,” she told him, averting her eyes. “You topped it off quite nicely with that photograph move… let’s hope he bites."

He observed her for two more seconds before coming to the conclusion that no other girl knew had such contradictory attitudes as this one.

“I’ve got to go,” he said all of a sudden, and without glancing back at her, headed out of the door.

Four hours later, he found himself balancing on a barstool in the same dingy Muggle pub he had come so many times before. He was holding his cheap tumbler by the base, twisting his fingers right, then left, then right and watching as the waves of amber liquid danced inside the cup.

His brain was fuzzy. He had accomplished what he had set out to do, which was drink until he no longer thought about anything like work or life.

At this present moment he was contemplating the difference between whisky and firewhisky. Why did we call it firewhisky? Muggle whisky, such as the fine cask he was enjoying right now, burnt just the same. The hangover was the same too, some more sober part of his brain thanking Merlin it was Sunday tomorrow. So, what was the difference?

He lifted his glass to take another sip, missed his mouth by a few inches, slopping some down his cheek before finding his intended mark.

Looked the same, after awhile tasted the same, burnt the same, made you forget the same, hurt the same.

The bartender, who was polishing glasses on the other side of the bar, noticed he was trying to get his attention. He sauntered over.

“Yes, may I please have another firewhisky," Draco slurred.

The barman poured him another while wearily trying to gauge just how drunk he was. Draco slapped a twenty pound note on the table and said, “keep the change, I can’t deal with your coins."

And this was probably the reason the man didn’t care how drunk he was.

“I don’t even know what the exchange rate is these days,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “So you could be charging me galleons and I wouldn’t even know,” he added, laughing to himself.

The bartender returned a polite smile that never reached his eyes and moved back to the other side of the bar.

“Granger would know the damned exchange rate. She probably knows it down to the seventeenth decimal,” he chuckled mirthlessly. “Infuriating bookworm,” he frowned.

“Malfoy?” he heard his name.

He turned, almost loosing his balance on the bar stool, and saw the blurry outline of Harry Potter.

He chuckled again, “Potter! Of course Potter is here.”

“You okay, mate?” he heard, because Draco had turned back to his tumbler.

“I’m bloody dandy, Potter,” he said before taking another sip.

“Right.”

“My good man,” Draco addressed the bartender, “another firewhisky whisky for Harry Potter,” he requested.

“Malfoy,"

“What, he knows whateymean,” he scoffed, pulling another twenty pound note from his pocket and offering it to the barman. “He saved the world you know,” he told the barternder offhandedly.

“Malfoy,” he heard again, except this time he had used his name as a threat.

Draco looked up at him. He saw the mixture of annoyance and concern anointing his face. With one last threatening glare, he took the seat next to him and accepted the barman’s whisky.

“What’re doing here anyways, Potter,” he asked, forgetting to add the correct intonation.

“Same as you I suppose, except a few hours behind by the looks of it,” he said.

Draco lifted his tumbler at him and then to his mouth.

They drank in silence while Draco ran a list of possible things to say that would irritate him through his fuddled brain. He was chuckling lightly to himself as Potter shot him quizzical looks.

“How’s the er, project, going?” he asked after a while.

“Great,” he replied heavily.

Draco did not want to talk about work. He did not want to talk at all, for that matter.

“How’s working with Hermione?” he asked tentatively.

He definitely didn’t want to talk about Granger.

“Fucking brilliant,” he spat, “she’s a joy to behold.”

Potter regarded him surreptitiously.

“You know, when we first met her, we couldn’t stand her. We thought she was annoying and bossy… I know you two don’t have the best history, but… well, at some point, she’ll come through for you in a way that will completely take you by surprise. You won’t even see it coming.”

“Don’t count on it.”

They were silent again for what felt like hours, or at least a few more drinks.

“They made me head of the Auror Office.”

Draco returned from the haze that was his mind to look at the man sitting next to him. His head was bent over the table, his bespectacled face staring intently at his drink.

He thought he would be aggravated with the news. But the skewered world he lived in didn’t surprise him anymore. He tried to asses if he was envious, he felt like he should be, but found that he wasn’t. He thought of his mother, of the extra work he had to do to keep his fathers’ investments running successfully, of the weight on his shoulder at the moment… Draco didn’t want that kind of responsibility. At least not at this point in his life.

“You deserve it,” Draco managed.

Potter looked at him apprehensively, but seemed to acknowledge the lack of bitterness to his tone.

Draco ordered another drink.

 

  


Harry gave her his trademark one-armed hug as he greeted her at his door. He was wearing a white top, checkered pyjama trousers and a head of exceptionally messy hair; he had clearly just woken up. She noticed the house was particularly quiet as they walked through - too quiet, for that matter.

“Where’s James?” she asked curiously.

“At the Burrow. I’m going to pick him up in a minute, I just need to, er, shower and change,” he said sheepishly.

Hermione gave him a questioning look. They did say they would meet at ten for brunch, but it didn’t take much to realise Harry had a late night.

“Make yourself at home, there’s some fresh coffee in the kitchen, just made it. I’ll be five minutes, promise,” he said, like a child who knew they had misbehaved.

She gave him a reprimanding look and he returned a guilty smile, before rushing up the stairs.

Hermione made her way to their kitchen, putting the kettle on for a cup of tea - she saved coffee for bad hangovers. She rummaged through the cabinets and the fridge, finding her way to the tea bags, sugar and the milk before retrieving a mug. She took her time making her tea, thinking she might go sit in the garden. It was a beautiful, crisp and cold autumn day.

She halted abruptly, her unsuspecting tea overflowing and scalding her hand. Stretched the length of the sofa ahead of her, wearing the crumpled version of the clothes he had wore the day before - and definitely fast asleep - was Draco Malfoy. Silently, she exclaimed in pain and flicked her fingers to dispel the hot water. She dried the back of her hand delicately on her trousers as the flash of heat subsided, taking a moment to observe him. He had one hand resting above his head and the other draped across his chest, his head was tilted to the side. His mouth was just slightly opened, his lips barely touching each other, and a small crease was showing between his eyebrows.

She heard footsteps coming down the stairs and silently made her way to them. Harry was reaching the last landing when she came up to him and poked him angrily on the shoulder with her free hand.

“Harry!” she whispered angrily. “Why the hell is there a sleeping Draco Malfoy on your sofa?!"

Harry suppressed a laugh. “Sorry, should’ve warned you,” he whispered back.

“Why is he here?!” she hissed.

“He was completely wasted, couldn’t walk straight, kept passing out on the bar. Couldn’t just leave him there,” he explained.

“Why leave him in the damned conservatory, you have a guest room upstairs!” she complained as silently as she could.

“I wasn’t so sober myself, could barely levitate him to the sofa as it was,” he defended himself.

“Well, you sort it out.” she said through gritted teeth.

“Actually, Hermione,” he said edging towards the living room where the fireplace was, “I’m already late to pick up James,"

“Harry!” she hushed angrily.

“It’ll be fine, Hermione, he was so plastered he won’t wake up, I’ll be back in a minute, I promise,” he said in a low voice, backing away into the living room.

“Harry, if you’re not back in thirty seconds, so help me God, I will hex you into next year,” she threatened.

But Harry was already out of her sight. She took two deep breaths, deciding she would hide in the garden until Harry returned. When she walked back to the danger zone, she noticed with apprehension his position had changed. He had brought his other arm down to his stomach and he was facing the ceiling. She stopped and waited a few seconds to check he was still out of it.

Once she ascertained he was still asleep she slowly, very carefully, literally tip-toed to the other end of the conservatory where the door to the gardens was. She thought she had reached safety when her hand closed around the doorknob, when she heard the definite sounds of movement behind her. She froze, closed her eyes, praying to every God in the book he was just shifting positions again.

“Granger?” came a raw, strained voice from where he was.

Harry Potter was a dead man walking, she decided.

She opened her eyes and turned to face him.

His hair was completely dishevelled and his eyes were slits, trying to reduce the amount of light coming through them. He looked around, appraising his surroundings with curiosity.

“You’re at Harry’s,” she answered his unspoken question.

He shook his head slowly, coming up to a sitting position with what looked like immense effort.

“Coffee?” she ventured.

He brought his elbows to his knees and hands to his eyes, “yes,” he rasped before adding “please.”

Hermione turned and walked back to the kitchen, giving him some time to regain some composure - if he had any left. She retrieved another mug from the top cabinet and filled it to the brim with black coffee from the pot. He looked up at her as she walked back out of the kitchen, clearly still struggling with reality. She handed him the coffee cup.

“How’s the head?” she asked as he took the cup from her, their fingers meeting for the briefest second during the exchange. Hermione drew her hand quickly.

“Hmm,” was his grunted reply.

“Do you want sugar?” she asked.

“No, thanks,” he replied, tentatively taking a sip, closing his eyes as he did.

Hermione stood there, taking a sip of her own tea, unsure of what to do or say. She decided going into the garden now would actually make this more awkward than it already was. She shifted uncomfortably where she stood, while he sipped his coffee slowly. After a couple of minutes, he asked where the restroom was and excused himself.

Hermione huffed loudly, trying to decide if she had time to leave Harry a note and bail before Malfoy came back from the toilet. At that, she heard the familiar _whoosh_ of the floo and the little voice she loved so much.

“and then uncle Chawey thwew me high high up!” James’ little voice exclaimed with glee.

“That sounds brilliant, James!” Harry said.

The pair appeared at the entrance to the conservatory. When James saw her, his face broke into pure happiness. She deftly put down her mug on the coffee table and knelt as the child came running to her.

“Auntie Mione!” he jumped into her arms.

Hermione hugged him tightly. He never ceased to bring a smile to her face. Harry was leaning by the wall, watching them.

“Hey little one! How're you doing?” she asked, planting a kiss on his cheek.

The little raven haired boy put his palm on her cheek and said, “I miss you, auntie Mione.”

Her heart broke a little as she caressed his hair. “I miss you too, James. But I’m here all day! Do you want to help me make pancakes for brunch?”

He broke into a brilliant smile and nodded fervently.

“Did you have fun at the Burrow?” she asked.

“Yeah! Me and Uncle Chawey pway qwidditch!” he told her.

“Wow, that sounds amazing!” Hermione replied, aware of the smile stretched across her cheeks.

As she stood, she heard Harry say, “morning.”

Hermione looked up to see Malfoy standing a few steps away from him, looking more alive and fresh but, if possible, more uncomfortable than he had five minutes ago. He was looking at Hermione and James as he stood visibly ill at ease.

At the appearance of the stranger, James took refuge behind her legs.

“James, this is one of daddy’s… friends from work, Mr. Malfoy,” said Harry.

Hermione looked down to spy at the toddler, who was gazing curiously at Malfoy from behind her legs.

“Why don’t you come and say hello,” he said.

Hermione noticed Malfoy placing both hands in his pockets in clear discomfort. Then she watched as James slowly made his away across the room to stand in front of Malfoy.

“Hi mista Mawfoy,” he said, a little bit shyly. Then he boldly extended his small hand.

Hermione placed her hand over her mouth to contain her glee. She imagined the toddler Ginny would’ve done just that.

Malfoy broke into a chuckle and a genuine, if somewhat awkward, smile. Harry and Hermione exchanged glances as Malfoy formally shook James’ hand, and said, “hello.”

Hermione had never seen Malfoy smile before. She had seen him sneer, smirk and taunt. But never a genuine smile. It suited him, she noted.

“Mista Mawfoy, Auntie Mione is making pancakes! Awe you eating pancakes with us?” he asked eagerly.

Hermione felt a grin stretch underneath her hand. If there was a list of situations Malfoy never pictured himself in, this probably made top five.

“I can’t, but thank you for the invitation,” he said politely to the child.

“Daddy, can I go now?” he asked Harry, who nodded in response.

James scattered from the room and reappeared a few seconds later, zooming across the floor on his toy broom. Hermione saw as Malfoy’s eyes followed the child around.

“Good flyer,” he commented in a low voice.

Harry shook his head and said, “I’ve had to put cushioning charms on every corner of the house.”

“I’m going to head out, may I use your floo?” he asked awkwardly.

“Sure, just through the living room.”

“Ok, thanks,” he replied, and with one awkward glance at Hermione, he turned to leave.

Hermione stood for a couple of seconds, debating whether she should wait until tomorrow. Deciding it was pointless since he was already here, she said, “be right back,” and followed Malfoy to the living room.

He was stood by the fireplace, inspecting the area around it.

“It’s just on the mantle,” she answered as she realised he was searching for the floo powder.

He turned his head and muttered a quick thank you.

“Malfoy, I wanted to talk to you about something,” she said, edging a little closer so that her voice wouldn’t carry, but still keeping her distance.

He turned and waited for her to speak again.

“I finished working on the arithmancy charts yesterday and they’re all calculations concerning the dissipation element of the curse,” she said.

“Okay…” he said, unsure if this was all she had to say.

“I’ve skimmed through the rest of the scrolls and none of them address the stability issue."

He looked at her with more interest now, his brow creasing in the middle.

“I think we’re missing scrolls. I think Rookwood didn’t make copies after all, I think he might have given him the original notes,” she finished.

He stared at the floor as he took this in, and they stood in silence for a few moments.

A _whooshing_ sound followed by a light cackle sounded through the room, and James appeared flying between them on his broom. Harry came in next, trying to catch up with his child.

“James come here,” he said as he ran in, cornering the toddler as he came back around and picking him up. “Sorry,” he said apologetically, looking up at both of them.

Malfoy nodded once to Harry and picked up some floo powder. He stepped in the fireplace and enunciated, “Malfoy Manor.”

He looked straight at her before he disappeared through the green flames.


	14. Equanimity

The temperature had dropped with the arrival of the good weather. With no clouds to protect the island, Britain turned cold as the skies turned blue. This time of the year always reminded him of Hogwarts. The colours outside changing from green to shades of yellow and red, the wind picking up and then the sudden drop in temperature that signalled the approach of winter.

Draco bought usual cup of black coffee from his favourite coffee shop a few blocks from the Ministry before making his way. He felt somewhat anxious today and there was little doubt in his mind it was due to yesterdays’ events. Draco had returned home and apologised to a worried Narcissa for his lateness. He showered, consumed a potion to dull the pain in his head, and braved his hangover by indulging his mother with brunch in the patio. He then had spent the rest of the day secluded in his room, thinking.

He had been stupid to allow himself to get so blind drunk he couldn’t walk, let alone apparate home. He guessed he should be thankful to Potter, or else he would’ve surely woken up in an alley somewhere. He was certain the barman, irrelevant of how much money he had spent that night, wouldn’t have allowed him to just sleep with his head over the bar counter. When he had woken up he had absolutely no idea where he was, and when he saw Granger he wondered for a second if he was in her home. Thank Merlin that hadn’t been the case, he did not know what he would do if he had to deal with Weasley while in that state. Not that waking up in Potter’s house hadn’t been mortifying; he could practically feel his younger self shuddering at the thought.

As he approached the Ministry, he remembered seeing her smiling with the child. She had looked happy. In all the years after the War when he had seen her in corridors, he did not remember her smiling like that. It was an unrestrained smile. At that moment she had not looked vulnerable or weak; the happiness that the child brought to her had illuminated her features. She had looked younger, more alive, and free from whatever weight she carried.

It had only been a week since they began working together, yet it felt like months. In the span of seven days she had managed to raise his temper and his curiosity in equal amounts. She had driven his disposition to its absolute limits, enraging him to the point of doing things such as storming off or testing the decibels of his vocal chords. He hadn’t had that many arguments with anyone in the last five years. And for a second, she had made him loathe her again by reminding him of the things in his life he could not escape. Then in other moments she had also confused him by refraining from acting how he had expected her to. In some instances, she had taken the exact opposite attitude.

Then there was the unsolved mystery of her bruises. He was walking through the Atrium now, making his way through the busy crowd. Draco had racked his brain trying to think of a way of finding out what had happened, but came to no answer short of outright asking her - and he knew how she would act if he did. But then again, maybe he didn’t.

He took another sip of his coffee as he entered the lift. He put aside his frustration with her and brought their investigation to the forefront of his mind. He had also dedicated a significant part of his debilitated day to think about what she had said. As badly as the Dolohov interrogation had gone, he could not deny they were now on a significantly better footing than they were Friday afternoon.

As he entered their room, he found her at the back, adding notes to the now barely empty writing board.

“Hey,” she said, glancing around at him.

“Hi,” he returned.

She finished whatever she was writing before returning to the table as he removed his coat and settled in. She handed him a piece of parchment with a list of names on them.

“I just got back from my old office, this is the list with all the Death Eaters that were imprisoned at the same time as Rookwood, or are still wanted.”

Draco scanned the list: Macnair, Travers, Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, Nott, Mulciber, Jugson, Goyle, Crabbe, Avery and the Carrows.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s do this by elimination.” He picked up his quill and unscrewed the ink bottle. “Macnair and the Carrows are still in Azkaban,” he crossed the names off, “so are Travers and Mulciber,” he crossed another two.

“Jugson is dead,” she added as he proceeded with his quill.

“Crabbe and Goyle are on house arrest, although I’ll speak to Potter about checking the wards again,” he said.

“Nott was released to house arrest last month,” she continued.

“Really?” Draco asked, looking up. He hadn’t heard about this.

“Yes… he’s got a fatal strain of ague, Healers say he has only a few months left. Because of his age and the severity of the disease, the Ministry allowed him to spend the rest of his time at home."

Draco went silent, thinking of his old classmate Theo.

“I thought you knew,” she said tentatively. “I know you’re friends’ with his son."

“We haven’t spoken in years,” he answered deep in thought. “Theo lost his mother when he was really young,” he continued. He made a mental note to ask Blaise if he knew about this.

Granger was scrutinising him carefully and he realised he had spoken to her in a semblance of a normal tone. He returned abruptly to the list.

“That leaves us the Lestrange brothers and Avery,” Draco finished.

The Lestrange brothers had never been caught after the Second War. And Avery was the Ministry’s biggest post War blunder, as the Prophet liked to remind them. He had escaped Azkaban three months after the Battle of Hogwarts, on the way back from his trial. It was at the time the Ministry was instating the new guarding system that would replace the Dementors.

She left her seat to add the names to the only empty corner of the board, drawing a square around them.

“I’m going to go back upstairs and get their files,” she said.

“Okay, I’ll go and speak to Potter about checking on Crabbe and Goyle. I’ll also ask him if he can give us any new information the Aurors might have on those three,” he said, concluding that having Potter as the Head of the Auror Office might be more beneficial than he expected.

When he arrived at the Auror Office, Potter’s door was wide open. Draco made his way in and inspected his surroundings.

“Oh, hey,” Potter greeted from behind a small mountain of parchments and scrolls.

“Nice office.” Draco commented dryly.

“Not loving the paperwork that comes with it,” he complained.

Draco ignored him before saying, “I need a couple of favours."

Potter must have gauged the tone of his voice, because he put his quill down and looked up at him.

“Go on,” he said.

“I need a check on the Crabbe and Goyle residence wards, make sure they haven’t been tampered with and that no unauthorised person has entered or left the properties."

“Okay, I’ll get someone on it.”

Draco looked at Potter in silence. He didn’t want to make his next request in a way which he could deny him, but he also wasn’t one for begging.

“We also need as much information as possible on Avery and the Lestrange brothers. Possible hiding places, tip offs, recent sightings, anything will help us."

Draco had purposefully used _we_ and _us_ , strategically deciding that including his friend in the request would probably help his cause.

His expression became grave.

“I’ll see what we have,” he replied, before adding, “is there anything I should be worried about, Malfoy?”

Draco remained silent. Truthfully, the answer was yes. But he wasn’t about to send Potter into a panic, not before they had a better idea of what they were dealing with. He also didn’t know what sort of clearance Robards had before. He knew that he, Draco, had a signed a confidentiality agreement which prohibited him to discuss this with anyone.

“Not at the moment,” was the answer he went for in the end.

Potter gave him a calculating look and then nodded, “keep me posted, then."

“Sure,” Draco said, before heading out the door.

 

  


Hermione was studying Avery’s file, searching for any clue that might indicate he could be involved with _extimius adflictio_. Malfoy returned to the room and glared suspiciously at the new cardboard box that sat on the table next to her.

Hermione eyed it and then turned to him and explained, “I didn’t want to raise any suspicions so I just made copies of all the Death Eater files we have.”

He nodded in return before taking his seat and staring at her. His brow was just slightly creased, like it had been yesterday when he was sleeping on Harry’s sofa.

“Did you tell Potter anything about the research?” he asked.

“Of course not!” She glared at him, affronted at the accusation.

He scowled at her reaction, before adding, “I’m just wondering how much information Robards had before… last week.”

Hermione put Avery’s file down. Surely now he was Head of the Auror Office, Kingsley would have to bring him up to speed.

“Kingsley will probably update him on the initial briefing of the mission,” she said, “but I don’t think we should tell him about the things we discovered.”

She couldn’t read the expression on Malfoy’s face, but she continued her reasoning out loud.

“If Harry finds out there’s another group of Death Eaters with access to this curse, he will send the entire Auror division out to search for them. Seeing as we don’t know how widespread this information is, we can’t risk sending them into hiding again,” she said, noticing her voice becoming a little panicky as she went on.

Malfoy was staring at her again, the little crease between his brows beginning to frustrate her immensely. She felt an involuntary urge to reach out and spread it with her thumb.

“Our only advantage at the moment is this knowledge,” she pointed at the board. “They can’t know we’re onto them or else they will scatter, and it will be like searching for needles in a haystack, and then we will have no chance of containing this curse, let alone finding a measure to counter it. I know Harry, and as much as I love him, he won’t be able to just sit and not do anything about it.”

She was rambling now, but his scrutinising silence was making her feel more guilty about hiding this from Harry. She stared back at him, her leg beginning to bounce up and down restlessly beneath the table.

“I agree,” he said finally.

Hermione sighed in relief, feeling her muscles relax a little.

“Okay,” was the only thing she could reply. She felt a little awkward at this novel situation, since they had yet to agree on anything without a preceding fight. She decided to push her luck and broach the subject she had been thinking about for the last two days.

“I’ve been thinking about the missing scrolls… something is not adding up,” she began.

“I know,” he agreed.

Encouraged by this rare moment of equanimity, Hermione went to the board and flipped it so it would rotate on its axis. Faced with a clean board, she picked up the marker quill.

She drew a long horizontal line across the board.

“Okay, so we know that at point zero Rookwood entrusts his work to Dolohov et. al., let’s call them Group A,” she marked the point at the beginning of the line and wrote AR — Group A.

“Then we know there were four attacks,” she marked four evenly spaced vertical lines towards the other end of the board and named their locations beneath them: Dundee, Aberdeen, Orkney, Inverness.

“Except we know that the attack in Orkney was done by Group B,” she made a small vertical line above the correct point and wrote Group B.

“We also know that somewhere between these two time points, they managed to stabilise the curse,” she drew a curve underneath, joining the points Aberdeen and Inverness and drew an asterisk at its midway point.

She returned to the blank space in the middle part of the timeline and continued, “Rookwood might have passed on the information to Group B either immediately after telling Group A, or during his brief time in Azkaban,” she marked two points along the middle of the timeline and named the accordingly.

She was so enthralled in her reasoning she jumped in fright when Malfoy materialised beside her, taking the quill from her hand without so much as ‘excuse me’.

“There are two potential situations that stem from here,” he began. “He either gave Group A and Group B identical copies of the scrolls on how to solve the stability issue,” then he drew a parallel vertical time line from the first potential moment Rookwood hands over the information to Group B to their attack in Orkney.

“Or… he never gave Group B any scrolls in the first place…” he continued, trailing off as he stared at the board.

Hermione could feel her own brain accelerating as she caught up to where he was trying to get.

“Granger, we assumed the attack in Orkney and the attack in Inverness were caused by the same group because they had similar magical traces. But now we know they weren’t and there is no actual evidence that the pain element of the curse had been included at the attack in Orkney."

“Which means it might not have been stabilised yet,” she continued.

“Exactly. So either Group B have the copies of the scrolls but still haven’t managed to implement it properly, or they never had them in the first place. If Rookwood told someone this while he was at Azkaban, he never would’ve been able to actually give them anything, he would have just been able to tell them where to find it...” he concluded.

They looked at each other.

“Dolohov,” Hermione breathed.

“Dolohov.” Malfoy replied, as in agreement.

“That’s why he was so fucking arrogant,” he slammed his fist on the table. “He was two steps ahead of us the entire time. He knew about the other attack, maybe even already established contact with the others, he knew he had the key information to make this happen and that we didn’t have a fucking clue.”

His anger was almost tangible. It was clear to her Malfoy didn’t deal well with failure. Hermione remembered what Harry had said about his fight against himself and the choices he had made in life. She then realised why he had gotten so blind drunk on Saturday.

She was definitely spending too much time with him.

 

  


Monday came to an end and Dolohov made no move to reach for them. Draco had interrogated him again on Tuesday, spending almost two hours using every possible technique in his arsenal to question him about the whereabouts of the remaining scrolls and the identity of the other Death Eaters. He had bluffed, threatened, lied, but Antonin Dolohov did not utter a single word.

Draco delved into the scrolls, working furiously through them to assimilate as much information about *extimius adflictio* as possible. Granger focused on the Death Eater files, going over each and every one of them to see if anything pertained to their investigation.

As the week went on, frustration and anger had begun to consume him. He knew they were running against time, with the possibility of another attack coming at any moment.

On Thursday morning Potter had met them at the reception area of the C.O.E.C’s offices and supplied the most up to date information they had on their three main suspects: Avery, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. Malfoy noticed Potter had lingered as they took the file from him. Draco wondered briefly if he was expecting them to tell him something, or if he had hoped they would open the file in front of him so he could measure their reactions.

They had worked in silence most of the time, only speaking when one interrupted the others' concentration if they thought they had found something interesting. Their perpetual state of aggravation had made them both irritable, which in turn meant they began the habit of entering into bickering sessions throughout the day. It was late morning on Friday and Draco was sat on his seat, massaging his temples, attempting to block out the sound of Granger’s voice.

“-so arrogant! You dismiss something that can prove to be extremely important on a _whim_! The world does not revolve around your,"

She seemed particularly irate today, he concluded as he took a deep breath and searched the depths of his character to find the strength to ignore her.

“-but no, if it’s not your idea or your way, it’s simply not good enough! Ugh sometimes I just want to,"

Did she ever just shut up? How did Potter stand being friends with her this long?

“-such a fricking Slytherin! Are you even listening to me, Malfoy?"

He was trying really, really hard not to.

“Arrogant, conceited, self-centred, prat!” she was yelling now.

“I’m going for lunch,” he decided. He stood up, retrieved his coat and headed out of the door before she could say another word.

Merlin, she was insufferable. He made his way out of the building, checking again the address Blaise had given him. He could have apparated straight there, but seeing as it would be pointless to arrive twenty minutes early and just sit there waiting, he decided to walk. Maybe the cold would actually help calm his temper.

He arrived to find Blaise already seated and waiting for him. Draco took the seat across from him and immediately reached over the table, taking his glass of beer and drawing a sip.

“Nice to see you too, Draco, I’ve been great, thanks for asking, yeah of course, go ahead, help yourself to some of my beer,” Blaise scorned.

Draco just peered at him from the top of his beer and helped himself to another sip.

“Trouble in paradise?” he asked, before retrieving his beer.

“Fuck, she’s annoying,” Draco conceded.

Blaise laughed.

“Seriously, Blaise, she’s infuriating! I swear, she’s driving me insane! Another week of this and I’ll be in Mungo’s for good,” he vented.

“I don’t know, mate,” he said, smiling and leaning back on his seat. “I think she’s good for you.”

Draco felt his face go blank as he gave him his best ‘are you fucking kidding me’ look.

“I haven’t seen you this… alive in, well, years,” he shrugged his shoulder.

Draco scoffed audibly at the notion.

“Anyway,” Blaise said pointedly, "before you burst that vein in your neck, you said you had something important to talk about?"

“Yeah, I do actually,” he said before asking in a low voice, “have you heard from Nott recently?"

“Theo?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “Not since… last year, I think?”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Draco asked.

Blaise took a few seconds before replying, “we went for a pint around Christmas. He had gone to visit his father, he wasn’t doing too well… why?”

“His father got released to house arrest last month, apparently he only has a few months left.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Blaise sipped his beer.

“Maybe we should get Theo out for a drink, get his mind off things. You know how Theo is, always in his head,” Blaise suggested.

“Yeah, let’s."


	15. A Change in the Winds

Hermione woke with a start when a loud noise sounded through the apartment. She reached for her wand under her pillow and turned to face the door, her heart hammering against her ribcage. She could hear someone moving through the living room, knocking things over. When she came to the bedroom door, she paused, taking a defensive position along the wall before she pulled it open and pointed her wand.

Standing on the other side, half bent over a fallen side table, was Ron. He looked up as she appeared and staggered back, catching his balance on the back of the sofa. He was an absolute mess.

“Mione, why you pointing dattame for?” he spoke, and his tone took her so much by surprise she didn’t even lower her wand.

Ron hadn’t spoken affectionately to her in over a year.

“Mione, siriusly put dewand away, its just me,” he said, staggering again.

Slowly, she lowered her wand, but kept it tightly gripped in her hand. She watched as he haphazardly brought himself to a standing position and tried to unscrew his face from the thirty different expressions he seemed to be trying to pull at the same time.

“Where have you been, Ron?” she asked, her voice showing no tone of humour or affection.

“Me?” he asked, pointing at himself.

“Yes, you. You haven’t been home in three days."

Then, he actually smiled and said, “you know me, I been around.”

Hermione wanted to cry. He couldn’t do this to her. The only time she saw him smile now was in her memories.

“Ron, where have you been,” she demanded.

“Alright, I was at George’s.”

“I flooed him yesterday, he said he hadn’t seen you,” she replied.

“Whatsgowinon Mione, you jealous?” he asked, and then he actually laughed.

She swallowed tears of anger.

“I’m not jealous, Ron, I’m scared that I’m going to open the Prophet one morning and see a picture of you lying dead in a street corner somewhere!"

He staggered towards her, coming to an unbalanced stand in front of her. Hermione took an automatic step back and gripped her wand tighter. He smelled disgusting, the scent of alcohol and dirty sweat overwhelmed her immediately.

“No, Mione, its okay, come here,” he said while attempting to caress her face.

She deftly moved out of the way and back into the bedroom before shutting the door and screaming “ _coloportus_!"

She slid down against the wall and began crying in earnest.

He didn’t get to do this. He didn’t get to disappear for three days, doing God knows what, and then come back in that state, pretending everything was okay. He couldn’t spend the better part of a year pushing her around, hurting her, manipulating her and then all of a sudden do that. Be that Ron, the one she yearned for so long.

Anger surged through her, unrestrained, and she grunted through her tears.

No, this wasn’t fair.

She heard him stumbling around the living room again, before returning to her bed and searching for sleep.

She jumped awake again, although this time it wasn’t a noise but a blinding white light shining in her face that did it. She immediately recognised the stag patronus which her mind couldn’t help but associate with bad news.

“Hermione, I need you to come to my place, right now,” it said. Harry’s voice sounded impatient and angry.

She glanced at the clock on her bedside table and saw it was four in the morning. Her head felt heavy with bad sleep. She changed into jeans, a white top and an old sweater as quickly as she could. She grabbed her wand and removed the charm from the door. As she walked in to the semi-destroyed living room, she saw Ron’s unconscious form lying on the sofa, snoring loudly.

Without so much as a second glance to him, she grabbed some floo powder and walked into her fireplace.

Before she even stopped spinning, she could see Harry pacing as his living room came into view. As soon as she stepped out, he rounded on her.

"I’ve just been woken up by the Scottish Law Enforcement Squad leader, there’s been another attack,” he spat angrily.

She felt her heart sink. It was exactly what they had feared would happen.

“Do you want to explain to me what’s going on?! I thought we had stopped this! I thought Dolohov was the one doing it, why the hell has there been another explosion in the Highlands!?”

“Harry, has there been any victims?” she asked urgently.

“Did you know there was a possibility of another attack?”

“Harry, please answer me.”

“Yes, but none fatal. Hermione if you knew this was a possibility, why the hell didn’t you come to me?” he demanded.

She felt like someone had released a hand from around her heart. She took a seat on the armchair by the fireplace, her brain working rapidly.

“Hermione, I’m still waiting for an answer,”

“Harry, you need to get Malfoy here, right away,” she said, her brain trying to evaluate the possibilities.

“What?”

“Harry, please,” she begged, “get him here.”

He breathed loudly, staring down at her. Then she heard him relay the same message he had sent her to his patronus.

“Hermione, I never thought you would be this irresponsible,” he said, disappointment clear in his tone.

“Harry, I made a decision and it’s not like I’ve been ignoring the possibility this would happen! You have no idea-"

“You gambled with human lives!"

Hermione looked up at him in shocked horror. She stood back up.

“Gambled? Harry, do you know what this curse does? It exterminates! It is made to exterminate Muggles through torture! You think I would gamble anything? I have been working every second of every day to try and stop it before it blows out of proportion!”

“Did I miss something?” came a drawl from the fireplace.

Both Harry and Hermione turned to look at Malfoy. He was wearing black formal trousers and what looked like a posh dark blue v-neck sweater over a white top.

“There’s been another attack,” Harry said.

“Where?” he asked immediately

“Near Dornoch, in the Highlands.”

“No fatal victims,” Hermione added.

“You two should’ve told me there was the possibility of more attacks,” he said gravely, breathing heavily through his anger.

“I know, Harry,"

“It could’ve been a fucking disaster. It’s going to be, as it is, Kingsley is going to lose his shit and come down hard on all of us.”

“Potter,"

“I need to go back in, get a team together,"

“Harry!” Hermione bellowed.

They all went silent.

“Harry, you have got to listen to me,” she said, trying to place as much urgency in her tone as possible. “You absolutely cannot go after them,"

“Hermione, what are you on about, we need to stop them,"

“Harry, please, you have to trust me on this. If they sense a whiff of Aurors they will scatter like rats and we will never be able to contain this curse,” she begged.

“Hermione, you can’t think I’m going to sit here and do nothing!”

“Harry, please listen to me, please. If we have any chance to stop this curse from reaching its full potential, it will not by coming in wands blazing."

“She’s right, Potter.”

They both turned to look at Malfoy. Harry looked slightly betrayed.

“Fine, what do you suggest we do then?”

“We have to go. Malfoy and I.” She chanced a quick glance at Malfoy. He was staring at her in disbelief.

“No,” came Harry’s reply.

She was not dismayed and kept going, “by the looks of it, that curse isn’t stabilised yet.”

“No way, Hermione.”

“Harry, we know what they’re looking for, we need to get to it before they do. We also need that information. We need to go.”

Harry was scrutinising her.

“You will not go after them on your own, I’ll get Seamus and Anthony,"

“Harry, listen to me,” she begged. "We need to be invisible. We need to stop them without them knowing we’re doing it. If they go underground now, we lose any chance we might have. They waited two years to meet again, Harry. We can’t afford losing track of them."

She tried to speak calmly, but her voice was higher than she would’ve liked and the urgency in her tone was undeniable. Harry was appraising her while her eyes begged for him to understand.

“I don’t like this, Hermione,” he admitted.

“Neither do I, much,” she confessed. “But I don’t think there’s any other way."

She looked at Malfoy. He was staring at them in frustration, his eyes darting as if he was trying to solve a hard arithmancy problem.

“We’re both trained Aurors,” she reasoned. “We’ve been immersed in the making of this curse every day of the last two weeks, we have information we got from Dolohov and Yaxley… at the moment we’re ahead of them, Harry. It’s the best chance we have."

Harry looked from one to the other a few times before caving in and saying, “fine.”

Hermione released a strangled breath.

“Fine, but we do this my way,” he continued. “You leave now. If we have to wait to get through the Ministry red tape, you will loose your advantage. I will deal with Kingsley. Go to the Ministry now, pack whatever you need while no one’s there. Go home, get your things and meet me here. Thirty minutes.”

“Hold on a second, I can’t just up and leave for Scotland for Merlin knows how long!” Malfoy exclaimed.

Both Harry and Hermione looked at him. Hermione couldn’t believe this. He knew it was the only way, surely he did.

“I’ve got things I need to take care of,” he continued.

“Malfoy, I don’t give a shit what you have to do, as far as I’m concerned, stopping this curse is your only priority. Go, I will see you both here in twenty-nine minutes."

The Ministry was dark and empty, their footsteps echoed loudly against the high walls. In their room, they packed the files and scrolls in silence, placing them all in an empty cardboard box Hermione had conjured; she would organise them when she got home. She could tell Malfoy was angry and tense by the way he shoved things in the box with excess force and haste.

She was anxious, scared at what lay ahead of them, yet she guiltily relished the excitement coursing through her. She had forgotten what it felt like to be able to actively do something, and it reminded her of parts of herself she wished she had never left behind.

Once all they deemed essential was selected, Hermione turned to the bookshelf and began scanning the shelves to see if she spotted anything that could be useful. When she turned back, Malfoy was no longer there.

At home, she packed her bag as fast as she could. She changed into a pair of sturdy khaki trousers, a long sleeved white cotton top and a warm vest. She felt blindly in the back of her closet floor for the pair of never used hiking boots her mother had given to her as a present.

She looked out the window as the sky began to lighten. Her heart was working at a rhythm above its normal average - her body trying to deal with contradictory trepidation that filled her stomach and the assurance in her mind that this was the right thing to do. She then picked up a large weatherproof walking coat that used to be her dad's and turned to leave.

Ron was standing by their bedroom door, looking haggard and worn, and observing her over crossed arms. His expression was sullen.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice deep and dispassionate, no remnant of the affection it carried a few hours ago.

“I’m going to have to leave for a few days, for work,” she said, keeping her emotions at bay.

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request,” she said calmly.

“You’re not going anywhere with that git.”

“You’re not in any position to tell me where to go or what to do, now please,” and she made to go past him.

He moved in front of her. His entire face was pale and ashen and his eyes were dark.

“Ron, get out of my way,” she said calmly.

“Hermione, you are not leaving,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Get out of my way.”

He held onto her upper arms angrily, squeezing them with force, but before he could utter another word, Hermione placed both hands on his chest and pushed him as hard as she could.

He staggered back clumsily, his body still not recovered from his latest binging session. Heart-racing, she took her chance, taking the few steps into the living room. She grabbed a lot more floo powder than necessary and disappeared into the fireplace.

 

  


Draco magically sealed the letter addressed to his mother and placed it in the small elf’s hands.

“Remember what I told you, Thea,” he said gravely.

She nodded and disappeared with a crack.

His irritation was coursing through his veins like wildfire. He felt trapped, he knew there was no other choice, he had been outsmarted and outranked by Granger and Potter, yet he dreaded leaving Narcissa. Part of him knew there was a chance he would not see her again. He swallowed his anxiety and picked up his black backpack, now packed with a change of clothes, a warm sweater, toiletries and both wizard and muggle money. He picked up his muggle coat - a forest green jacket, warm and full of pockets, he had bought at a muggle hunting shop - and headed for the fireplace.

He arrived at Potter’s living room to find it empty. He checked his watch and saw he still had, hopefully, at least five minutes before Granger returned. He walked through the living room and found Potter sitting on the table looking over a map. He looked up at Draco when he walked in without acknowledging him.

“Potter,” he began, feeling the muscles in his jaw contract. “I need a word."

Surely noting the constraint in his voice and the seriousness of his countenance, Potter stood up and faced him. He waited in silence for Draco to say something.

He had no idea how difficult this was for him.

“I need your word this will remain between the two of us,” he threatened.

“What’s going on, Malfoy?” he asked impatiently.

Draco remained silent. This was definitely a bad idea.

“Malfoy, if this has something to do,"

“It’s a personal matter.”

Potter’s anger seem to subside from his eyes.

“Your word, Potter.”

“Fine.”

Draco wasn’t convinced. He should’ve asked Blaise.

“Malfoy, you have my word I won’t divulge anything you’re about to tell me.”

“My mother. She hasn’t… been well. She’s very weak,” he breathed, his voice almost a whisper. “She’s being taken care of, at home. But, if something happens, if she needs me, I won’t be able to help her.”

Potter’s confusion and concern were visible on his features.

“Should something happen to her, I’ve instructed my house-elf to bring her to you. I know its an impertinence on my part, but I need to know she will be protected."

Potter looked at him for what seemed like a long time, long enough for Draco to regret having told him. He seemed on the verge of saying something, but then he changed his mind, nodded and said just said, “okay.”

“Thank you.”

Potter nodded again.

“Thea.”

“Excuse me?”

“My elf’s name is Thea."

A movement in the corner of his eye told him they weren’t alone anymore. Sure enough, Granger walked in from the living room. Her head was bent and her hands were holding onto the straps of her backpack, but he noted the slightest tinge of red across her cheeks.

Had she heard?

Potter cleared his throat and turned to a collection of items on the table that Draco hadn’t noticed before.

“Okay, I’ve got a few things for you. Standard issued Auror Office tent,” he placed a roll of green canvas onto Granger's hand. "Hermione you don’t know this but the new tents are embedded with basic protection spells, muggle repellant and disillusionment.”

Granger removed one strap from her arm and swivelled the backpack round to her front. Draco’s eyes widened as the canvas disappeared into the small rucksack.

“Undetectable extension… she’s good with those,” Potter commented, noticing his stare. He saw Granger giving him a small smile - Draco obviously was not privy to this inside joke.

“I’ve marked the location of the attack on the map,” he said, handing it to Draco. Then he handed Granger a handful of objects and said, “decoy detonators and instant darkness powder."

“Two, unathourised, emergency portkeys,” he handed each of them two objects carefully wrapped in cloths. I want these on your person at all times. They will bring you to Battersea Park, in southwest London. Just a precaution, in case they fall in the wrong hands or someone decides to tag along. I’ve made a protean charm to this,” he said as he picked up a small snitch shaped key-ring. “I will know if you’ve activated them and I’ll come find you."

Draco placed his emergency portkey into the back pocket of his trousers, before closing it with the button.

"Lastly, I want you to take this,” he handed Granger a silver, shimmering garment.

“No, Harry,"

“Hermione, this is not a conversation. This is an order,” he said sternly. “Just, er, don’t lose it, please,” he finished on a lighter note.

Draco observed as Granger fit the invisibility cloak into her bag.

Potter turned to them and spoke with a lot more authority than he had expected.

"Do not contact me or anyone else while you’re there. I will cover you for as long as I can, but I’m hoping you will be able to finish this before Kingsley decides to intervene. And I can assure you, it will not bode well if he does. If you need back up at any time, send me your patronus with a location, nothing else.”

Granger nodded.

"There’s only one last thing and it is the most important: you'll have to limit your use of magic. We’ve been caught out because of magical sensory spells before and I do not want to have to attend either of your funerals. If you know you might be anywhere near where they are hiding, do not use magic at all, unless you have to engage in combat. Have I made myself clear?”

Granger replied by way of throttling the man in front of him with a hug; for a minute all he could see was a mass of hair and a pair of lopsided glasses.

“Be safe,” he said over her shoulder.

She let go and took the few hurried steps to the front door.

Draco turned to follow when he encountered Potter’s extended hand ahead of him. He looked up at the man he once hated, stupefied at how much had changed in the last six years, before tentatively shaking it.


End file.
